


All The Little Things

by Kari_Kurofai



Series: Maps Untraveled, Atlas Bound [4]
Category: My Engineer (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Anal Sex, Autistic Character, Bullying, Childhood Friends, Communication, Explicit Consent, Family, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Healthy Relationships, Insecurity, Kidfic, Knotting, M/M, Miscarriage, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Pregnancy, Pregnancy Aversion, Pregnant Sex, Protective Siblings, Sibling Bonding, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:48:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 54,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25907608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kari_Kurofai/pseuds/Kari_Kurofai
Summary: Short stories in the series. Please read after Anchors On a Distant Shore to avoid spoilers.Warnings will be in chapter notes if there are any triggers. Tags will be updated as needed.
Relationships: Boss/Mek (My Engineer), Duen Krisada Rattananumchok/Bon Sirikarnkul, Frong Korawit Kankun/Thara, King/Ram (My Engineer)
Series: Maps Untraveled, Atlas Bound [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1794442
Comments: 145
Kudos: 150





	1. Daughter DeLorean

Really, Duen should have known better. Hell, he already _did_ know better, because he scolded Bohn on this _exact same fucking thing_ twelve years ago. Alas ultimately, he is apparently both a weak man to his husband’s charms, and a stupid one. 

It's not his fucking fault he never bothered to learn the, uh, different "species" of cars. Or whatever. 

Day is doing a project that's _sort of_ for school. Sort of. He’s six, so Duen is fairly certain that he wasn't assigned to make a bar graph of gas emissions of famous movie cars. He’s also positive that this is just his son’s newest interest because Bohn took him and Bee to that car expo two weeks ago and he hasn't stopped talking about it since. Which is fine. Bohn is over the moon that Day's recent fixation is something they can discuss together, and Duen is just glad that Day seems more fascinated by how cars work rather than how fast they go and how cool the explosions of them are in movies like his eldest daughter and husband. 

"Is this for a school project?" he asks, sliding into a chair at the table next to Sun, who is dutifully cutting out printed pictures of cars for the poster board (probably because Day is still not allowed to use scissors after the incident where he decided to give himself a haircut). 

"Show and tell," Day says softly. He’s swinging his legs under the table, still too short to reach the floor for awhile yet. His tongue is sticking out a bit between his teeth as he meticulously shades in one of the bars of his graph with an orange crayon. "I'm gonna show, um . . . The . . . Gas emissions of the cars and tell . . . Tell everyone how they're bad."

Duen bites the inside of his lip to keep from smiling too widely. "Oh? Are the bars that are muddier colors the bad ones? And the lighter colors the good ones?"

He knows this kid well enough by now to guess right, and Day nods. "They're all bad though," he mutters after a minute. "All cars should be green."

Green energy, he means, or at least Duen is pretty sure that’s what he means. "I agree. I'm not very good at cars though," he admits, a severe understatement. "Can you tell me about some of these?"

He's delighted when Day does so, each picture Sun pastes on under the bars of the graph carefully explained. "Batmobile spits fire out of here," Day says, "so it's not green. This one," he points to another image, "runs on . . . Giga . . . Watts. Gigawatts." Across the table from him, Sun is nodding along encouragingly. "That's electric. So the DeLorean is the most green."

DeLorean.

Something much too knowing prickles at the back of Duen's mind. That sure sounds a lot like . . . "What's it called again, Day? Can you write that one out for me?"

Day grabs one of the scraps of paper and slowly writes the word out, in English, and then holds it up over his head for Duen to stare at. Yep. There's no mistaking it. That's almost definitely . . .

"Hey Bohn?" Duen calls across the room, his voice pitched honey sweet.

Bohn is laying on his stomach on the soft playmat in the living room. Their youngest at just barely four months old is carefully tucked between his forearms, her hands and legs wiggling as he blows raspberries on her stomach through her sunflower yellow onesie. He glances up when Duen speaks, but only out of the corners of his eyes. They've been together too long for him not to recognize that tone, which is even more apparent when he studiously does not respond. _He knows_ , Duen muses darkly. Only the baby seems oblivious, reaching up to pat tiny hands on her frozen dad's cheeks in her attempt to get his attention back. 

"Booooohn," Duen sing-songs dangerously, "is Del short for DeLorean?" He's not even sure why he's asking. He knows it is. Bohn gave _another kid_ a fucking _car name_ after Duen _specifically told him not to_.

Bohn’s eyes widen, "Uuuuuhhhhhh . . ." 

It's impressive, really, the speed at which Bohn manages to scoop Del up off the mat, snag the sling-wrap and the diaper bag where he left it on the back of the sofa, and book it towards the front door. Duen makes a valiant attempt to catch him, barely missing getting a hand in the collar of Bohn’s shirt as he leaps over the stoop and practically flies down the driveway to the car with a shout of, "I'm going to visit Ben! Bye!"

"It's _Wednesday_!" Duen shouts after him. "Ben has class!"

"Woohoo! Run, dad, run!"

Duen whips around from where he's now standing on the front step of the house to see Bee leaning out of her bedroom window, one fist in the air as she whoops. Bohn gives her a very cheeky wave from the car. 

Suspicion has Duen stepping back inside to stalk down the hall, throwing open the door to her room with a glare. "You knew!"

Bee puts a hand over her mouth as she whirls away from the window. "Um . . . Uuhhh . . . Knew what?" She gives him her best puppy eyes, a valiant effort that falls flat now that she's twelve and not _five_. 

"Grounded."

" _WHAT!?_ "

Walking back out into the dining room, Duen sighs and slumps over the back of Day's chair, nuzzling over the top of his head, only to narrow his eyes as he hears Sun trying desperately to muffle a quiet laugh in the sleeves of their hoodie. "Sunny," he coos. "You are also grounded."

Sun immediately stops laughing, lowering their arm to stare at him. "I don't even live here?"

"Still grounded."

". . . I knew Del was short for DeLorean too," Day whispers guiltily. "Dad told me at the car show."

Duen pulls back from his loose hug, horrified. "You too!?"

This is betrayal of the highest order at this point. Day, his most polite, well behaved, earnest boy! Not just that, but all of his kids, his husband, and a child that's not even his _conspiring against him_ to give his baby another _fucking_ _car name_. "You’re also grounded," he sighs.

"Kay," Day agrees easily. Duen kisses the top of his head.

Later, he calls Ben to both check that Bohn and Del are there, and inform him that being at university does not exclude him from being grounded. 


	2. Happy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bohn's hand traces absentminded patterns over Day's back, keeping track of the slow and steady rise and fall of his sleepy inhales and exhales. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "I think . . . Maybe I did something wrong." His chest hurts when he says it, a lump forming in his throat around the end of the words. 
> 
> "You don't really think that, do you?" Duen asks after a moment. He’s let the towel drop into his hand, and he sets it haphazardly aside on the dresser as he crosses the room to sit down on the edge of the mattress closest to Bohn. "Phi," he pleads, "look at me. You don't think that, right?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stories in this collection aren't in chronological order, by the way. This one takes place before the first one, and a year or so after Anchors On a Distant Shore

Day is just a few days over one year old when Duen brings home the stack of books, and Bohn studiously ignores him when he does it. He's laying on the living room floor, their son tucked up against his side and half asleep. They're going to end up talking about it tonight, he knows, but he desperately wants to put it off for just a little longer. It's been building for awhile now, the silent shared looks, the nervous, worried smiles. They have to talk about it.

He wishes desperately that they didn't. 

As always, it's impossible to get Day to sleep on his own. He clings and sobs when they try, and despite his bedroom having been set up for months now, it's gone mostly untouched. Bohn tries anyways, he always does. He paces the room with him, nuzzling into his hair and purring until Day starts to settle again, dozing at his shoulder. But his eyes are already red-rimmed and puffy, distress clear in how his little hands are fisted into the sleeve and collar of his dad's t-shirt, and Bohn doesn't have it in him to try again. Not tonight, anyways. 

He makes his way back to the master bedroom, careful not to jostle Day too much as he crawls up onto the bed and sits against the headboard with a sigh. His hand is tracing absentminded patterns over Day's back, keeping track of the slow and steady rise and fall of his sleepy inhales and exhales. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "I think . . . Maybe I did something wrong." His chest hurts when he says it, a lump forming in his throat around the end of the words. 

"Bohn, _no_."

Jolting, Bohn sits up a little more, startled to see Duen standing in the doorway leading to their bathroom. He still has a towel half draped around his shoulders, one hand frozen where he must have been ruffling the end of it through his hair. His eyes are like saucers, lips still parted in the wake of that stricken exclamation. Bohn swallows, mouth snapping shut and his hand clenching along Day's back as thick silence settles into the room. 

"You don't really think that, do you?" Duen asks after a moment. He’s let the towel drop into his hand, and he sets it haphazardly aside on the dresser as he crosses the room to sit down on the edge of the mattress closest to Bohn. "Phi," he pleads, "look at me. You don't think that, right?"

Bohn very purposefully does not look at him, furious tears welling in his eyes before he can stop them. "Who else's fault could it possibly be? I'm the one that carried him, and if you think I didn't notice pretty much the second he was born-"

Duen scoots closer, one hand firmly getting a grip on the shoulder Day isn't sleeping against to turn Bohn towards him. "I know. I know you know, okay. That's not- _Bohn_ , no one is at fault, alright? There's nothing to even be at fault for."

"He doesn't talk," Bohn chokes out, and the words work their way from his lungs like they were somehow a secret. "He isn't even walking yet. How is that not my fault?"

It must be. It must be, right? Maybe he wasn't careful enough while he was pregnant. Maybe he ate the wrong foods, got too much sun, or even stayed inside more than he should have. It wouldn't be the first time he fucked up with one of his kids. Hell, it wouldn't even be the _second_. As much as he wishes they didn't, his mistakes still weigh heavy in both heart and mind. And despite all that, unlike Day, Ben and Bee were walking and talking by the age he is now. They could sleep on their own most nights, and didn't wail when held by anyone other than family. If something is wrong with his baby, that's-

As if reading his mind, Duen whispers, "Nothing is wrong with Day," so fiercely that every muscle in Bohn’s body tenses. It's almost a growl the way he says it, a soft but sharp reprimand for something Bohn had only _thought_ but never spoken out loud. It sinks into him like stone how horrible it had been to even think it. 

"I'm sorry," he gasps, burying his face in the warm side of Day's body still clinging to him in his sleep. "I'm sorry. You're right. Fuck, god damn it, _I'm sorry_."

Duen sets a palm to his cheek, a thumb rubbing sympathetic circles across his skin and over tear tracks for a few minutes before he stands. When he comes back Bohn feels the mattress dip under the weight of the books he'd brought home, and he keeps his face pressed into the comfort of his baby for a moment longer, lost for a minute in the familiar scent before he peeks over to where Duen is patiently sitting beside him again. 

"You didn’t do anything wrong," Duen repeats quietly. "Day just needs a little more help than Bee and Ben did. I've been doing some reading," he taps the pile of books. "And I have a couple of things we can try together." 

The first tome is held up to reveal the cover, the title atop an image of a series of hand signs. "He's not deaf," Bohn says, confused. 

"No," Duen agrees. "But he doesn't talk. A lot of the things I've read say that babies can learn sign language really easily, and that it's a good way to communicate while they're still attempting to vocalize. Plus," he adds, a tinge more quietly, "there are quite a few studies showing that it helps children with autism have better language competency when they do start talking."

It's the first time either of them has said the word aloud, Bohn thinks, though he's sure they've both been aware of it for awhile. He doesn't realize the tears have flooded his eyes again until Duen makes a hoarse, distressed noise and shuffles closer to him. "You’re sure, right?" He hiccups, trying his hardest not to just break down into full out sobs and failing miserably. "You’re sure it's not my fault? That I didn't-"

" _Bohn_. _No_. It's not. Day is _fine_." 

Bohn nods along with everything he says, choking on the last waves of his dismay. 

Day is fine. _Day is fine_. He just needs a little extra help. "I want to help him," he manages, his breath shaking along the words. Duen smiles, relief clear in the wavering curve of it. "Show me how."

~~~***~~~

Contrary to popular opinion, Bohn was actually an excellent student in school. He just didn't (and still doesn't, really) give a shit about engineering. Sure, there are parts of it that interested him, a bit, but nothing that ever grabbed his attention enough to turn it into a career. So he's always been a bit blasé about his ideal of coasting through life after university on someone else's dime, even when that dime was mostly Duen’s. Whatever, they're married, it's fine. 

Hunkering down to study the books Duen brings home though sure feels like a full time job. Not that being a stay at home parent isn't _also_ a full time job, but reading and taking notes like he’s nineteen again becomes a _second_ full time job, and Bohn sort of hates every second of it.

Emphasis on sort of, because he desperately hopes it's all worth it. 

Signing for Day is actually fairly easy. He stumbles over it for the first few times, repeats himself whenever he realizes that he's forgotten to tip his hand towards his mouth when giving Day his bottle, or motion above his face and down before be picks him up when he cries. Most of his mistakes simply boil down to how easy it is for him to let his instincts override his brain. He suspects, though, that a lot of that can't be trained out of him. 

If Day is upset, it's intrinsic for him to hold him first, to spend a few minutes murmuring and purring to soothe him, scenting over his chubby cheeks and the top of his head until his baby is either quiet again or wiggling happily in his arms. Remembering to sign "sad" to him is often just a frustrating afterthought. He tells Duen as much a week later, dismayed at his own shortcomings. 

"It's okay," Duen assures in the solace of their room, Day soundly asleep on the bed between them. "Try 'happy' instead if that one is too hard."

"Happy" is easier, though only in its repetition. Despite his quietness, Day is overall a happy baby. Bohn signs "happy" to him whenever he seems content, often occupied by his favored plush blocks or the playmat on the floor decorated with a detailed, cartoonish city layout he seems periodically fascinated by enough to just stare at for long periods of time. Bohn buys him soft-sided cars with large teething-ring wheels to roll over the carpet-patterned roads. He’s careful to sit Day up whenever he signs to him, just in case he decides to sign back. But Day mostly seems a bit befuddled that his adventures in crawling have been temporarily halted. 

Bohn tries not to let it upset him. Much.

He signs "happy" and "eat" whenever he finds a new food Day seems to like. This week it's mushed strawberries Duen has made from scratch for him as a treat, topped off with the tiniest dollop of whipped cream. "Eat" is also signed for all the store bought cans of baby food in various vegetable flavors, but similarly to Day, Bohn is much less enthusiastic about those.

He signs "happy" and "bath" for, well, the bath. Unlike Bee, who always turned into an absolute unholy terror when bathed until she was practically in kindergarten, Day seems giddy about the majority of baths. Bohn actually sort of suspects he gets food in his hair some nights on purpose just to get more baths than he’d usually be allotted at his age. But he's just as clingy in the water as out of it, tucked securely against Bohn’s chest or shoulder for the majority of the time, pleased just to be held in the warm water, but not interested enough to play with the rubber duck he clutches in his hand the whole time. Bohn signs "happy" and "duck" to him too, since the toy is a particular favorite.

He makes up a sign for "phorh" that's different from "dad," if only because he wants to be sure that when (not if) Day starts signing back he can differentiate his parents in how he speaks. Bee's first utterance of the moniker for Duen had been so, _so_ important, and Bohn is loathe to take that away from him. He signs "happy" and "phorh" whenever Duen comes home from work, especially because Day is always ecstatic to see him. It’s one of the only times he comes close to an actual vocalization, burbling with delight when Duen sweeps out of the foyer to pounce on him, blowing raspberries onto his cheeks and tummy until he shrieks. It's not quite a laugh, but Bohn thinks it's getting closer to one.

He tries, foolishly, to sign "happy" and "sleep" together whenever he attempts to get Day to rest in his own room at night. Day is not having any of that though, totally ignoring the motions entirely by the fourth or fifth night Bohn does it. At first he's dismayed, but the next time Day twists his head away from the signs, he realizes that _he knows_ what he's doing, and he practically flies across the house to show Duen.

"Look!" He gasps, trembling a little as he signs "happy" and "sleep" again while Day squirms in Duen’s lap to _not_ look at his hands. "This is good, right? He's ignoring me because he knows what it means, right?"

"Probably," Duen agrees readily, grinning from ear to ear despite how this proves they still won't have their bed to themselves for awhile yet. "You’re doing really, really good, you know," he adds, and Bohn flushes under that unnecessary praise, purring regardless when Duen snickers and pecks a kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

To his delight, Day starts asking for more signs. Or at least, Bohn’s fairly sure that’s what he's doing. He holds things out for him every once in awhile, his expressions a little more earnest than Bohn is used to. Sometimes he even points, which is also new for him, one hand unwound from his constant tendency to cling when they're out and about in public. Bohn learns more signs than what he originally planned for, eager to make sure he can give Day the correct ones for things like "tree" and "dog" and "sun" when he casts him that quietly inquisitive look. 

Still, he doesn't sign back. But if Bohn finds that disheartening, he does his damndest not to let Day know that, at the very least. He concentrates on the smaller strides they're making, and signs "happy" and "walk" when Day starts pulling himself up on the sides of the coffee table and sofa after a few months, not quite yet taking his first steps, but still standing on wobbly legs. 

If he cries at night, face hidden in the pillows while Duen murmurs quiet consolations into his neck and draws familiar affections across his spine in slow twists and arcs, well, that's just between the two of them. 

More than anything, he just worries, though most of those worries have changed shape. His concern now radiates around the persistent thought that Day might be struggling, might be frustrated. He doesn't want him to be upset. Ever. If this is the hardest he can try, the best he's able to give, that's alright. Above all, he just wants Day to be happy. That's why he's centered most of his signs around that, an anchor to a quiet, desperate hope.

"Are you?" He can't help but ask once while Bee and Ben are at school, and Duen is on shift at the clinic. Please. God, please just that. That's all he wants. "Happy," he signs. "Are you happy?" His wrists are sore now from how often he says it, the constant twist of his hands into that circular turn enough to pull at his nerves. He smiles anyways though, does it again, again. "I am," he reassures, still so unsure if Day understands. "I'm happy just being with you."

Once, in the hours when Day was still pink and wrinkled and new, Duen had called him, "cuddly boy," because of how often he wanted to be held and tucked close, his face pressed into the crook of Bohn’s neck when he was distressed simply by the vastness of life. 

Bohn calls him that still, choking on tears of his own when Day responds to his inquiry by reaching up for him, the universal sign for wanting to be held. "I know, cuddly boy," he whispers, nuzzling into his hair. "You’re trying. I know."

He adds the sign for "love" into his repertoire after that, and uses it constantly. "Love" is signed when Duen leaves for work and when he comes back. He signs it to greet both Bee and Ben with, crosses his arms over his chest whenever he presses a kiss to Day's hair or noses over him to renew the scent of their family on him. 

"Happy"

"Love"

"Happy"

"Love"

Always. Always, always, _always_. 

Years ago, he’d made fun of Duen for weeks when he hadn't noticed Bee calling him "phorh." In hindsight, he really shouldn't have.

He blames it on exhaustion, his continued diligence in studying signs and the hours upon hours he spends making sure to accompany everything he says to Day with them. After months it's all almost unconscious, so well ingrained into how he speaks and everything he does, that he can't really blame himself for almost missing it. For fuck’s sake, they're not even doing anything cool when it happens. Bohn is just sitting there on the floor, back leaning against the sofa while Day sits in his lap, quietly flipping through one of his many and well-loved Touch and Feel books. Hell, Bohn is almost dozing off, the afternoon sun warm on his side where it streams in through the windows and the glass sliding door leading out into the yard. 

Day pats a palm to the fluffy cutout of the side of the bunny on the page of his book, and Bohn tilts his gaze down just enough to watch him roll his hands in front of his chest.

It takes a long, long second for it to sink in. And then it takes all his willpower not to either scream or burst into tears. Slowly, he puts his own hands into Day's line of sight, and repeats it back to him. "Happy?" He asks aloud, breath held around his own tentative elation.

This time, he does cry when Day signs it back. He scoops his son up into his arms, a fiercely delighted purr rumbling in his chest as he nuzzles over every centimeter of him he can. "Yes! I knew it! I knew you could do it! Day! You're the best!" He doesn't need spoken words, or even signs, to tell that Day is just as ecstatic as he is. His toddler clings to him the second he sweeps him up, wiggling with quiet glee as Bohn twirls him around the room and praises him. "My cuddly boy, my perfect, _perfect boy_! I knew you could do it! Your phorh is going to be so happy, too. Let's go call him."

Day is still a squirming, snuggly mess when he gets Duen on the phone, his face buried in the crook of Bohn’s neck and his hands curling and uncurling into the collar of his shirt, feet kicking. And when Duen comes home twenty minutes later, out of breath and eyes shining, Day signs "happy" for him, too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are always appreciated!


	3. Ben and the No Good, Awful, Very Bad Week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All of it is so collectively terrible and embarrassing beyond belief that Ben doesn't even bother to consider that it might get worse, not until he gets home, ready to sleep away his exhaustion and hopefully every brain cell that remembers the last five days, only for Bee to see him and scream bloody murder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one takes place between parts 2 and 3 of Anchors On a Distant Shore 
> 
> Also in case anyone forgot
> 
> Dad = Bohn
> 
> Phorh = Duen
> 
> And Anna was a cameo DeanPharm kid mentioned in part 3 of Anchors On a Distant Shore.

No amount of talks at home or biology lessons in school can ever do an adequate job at preparing someone for the inevitably of secondary gender presentation, and every uncomfortable, horrifying and mortifying aspect of it. 

Actually, Ben figures, it probably works out alright for that fifty percent of the population that presents as beta. But for the other half, it's absolutely a veritable hellscape, and he sort of wants to die. 

Throughout, there are many instances he considers at the time to be "the worst part." Realizing what was happening had definitely been a new low in life, as had been the twenty or so minutes of internal debate and suffering before he'd finally sucked it up and went to go tell his phorh. Sitting through the second, alpha-tailored version of The Talk had been even worse, definitely up there in his top ten most embarrassing moments in his entire life along with That One Time He Thought His Dad Would Die From Morning Sickness and The Six Seconds of Utter Terror When Accidentally Telling Anna He Liked Her In Front Of Her Olympic Athlete Father. 

And none of that even begins to cover the true agony of alpha presentation. 

Having his phorh take him to a specialty store to choose a rut mount while a salesman extrapolates the pros and cons of various silicone, anatomically correct nether regions? Awful. 

His dad giving him the keys to an apartment already paid for solely to be used for his ruts to give him privacy? Death would be easier.

The actual first rut? Not even worth mentioning. Horrible.

All of it is so collectively terrible and embarrassing beyond belief that Ben doesn't even bother to consider that it might get worse, not until he gets home, ready to sleep away his exhaustion and hopefully every brain cell that remembers the last five days, only for Bee to see him and _scream bloody murder_.

He's still so out of it and tired that it takes him a second to even realize that she's screaming at _him_ , his way too new instincts kicking into a panicked, protective overdrive that has him whipping around towards the still open front door, teeth bared and a snarl in his throat. Unsurprisingly, that just makes everything worse. His dad, who must have been in the living room somewhere, is in the foyer so quickly Ben basically blinks and he’s there. He scoops Bee up into his arms, desperately trying to soothe her as her scream instantly turns into deep, wailing sobs. His phorh dashes into the house from where he was locking up the car, hands held out in the universal gesture of trying to calm the situation. Ben decides, long before the world settles again, that he hates everything.

"Whoa! Whoa, whoa, whoa," his phorh gasps, eyes wide. "Everyone take a breath. What happened?"

His dad doesn't answer, murmuring solaces too soft to hear in an effort to shush Bee who is now crying inconsolably, shaking with every hiccupping inhale. Ben hasn't heard her cry like that maybe _ever_ , not even during that stretch of time she'd been sick off and on a year ago. She's totally distraught, and he knows with sinking agony that it's somehow his fault. 

Phorh seems to realize it first, his posture stiffening with both understanding and dismay. "Oh no," he whispers. "Oh, _Bee_ , it's okay." He crosses the space between him and Dad in a heartbeat, a hand reaching out to pat Bee's head. "Bumble-Bee, it's alright. That's just Ben."

Oh. _Oh_. Great. Fucking fantastic. His scent has changed so much that his own sister, who he _named_ , doesn't recognize him. 

That's it. He's done. Fuck everything. Ben throws his hands into the air with a snarl he doesn't mean to let out, and stomps off towards his room. He doesn't slam the door, it just shuts very, very loudly. 

~~~***~~~

On one hand, Ben is immeasurably thankful his parents are clearly trying to give him some space. On the other, the lack of prior comfort to the second, new worst moment of his entire life just makes it hurt that much more. He's still metaphorically sore from Bee's rejection, so when he gets to school the next day, already hurting in the worst sort of way, only for Anna to visibly tense up when he sits down next to her at their usual spot by the football field, well, that's just too much. Too much on top of what was already too much. And Anna’s expression shifts from instinctively wary to stricken as he bursts into tears.

"Oh my god," she whispers, horrified. "Oh no, Ben. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, I just-" She falters, the explanation obvious enough that it doesn't actually need saying. Anna is a beta, her reaction was intrinsic. But that doesn’t make it suck any less. 

Somewhere in the background, Ben is sure he hears the bell go off, the distant sounds of classmates hurrying to get to their first lessons. He decides he doesn't care.

It takes him way longer than he’d like to calm down. His breath hitches in uneven starts while he buries his face in his hands, hot tears dripping out between his fingers no matter how hard he tries to hold them in. A really bang-ass job he's doing of being an alpha, he thinks with ever rising anguish, all he's done so far is have an embarrassing first rut, scare the shit out of his sister, make his sort-of girlfriend nervous, and _cry_. Super great. Amazing. He is the stellar, pinnacle of alpha-dom.

Whatever deities decide secondary gender, Ben hates every single one of them. Fuck those guys specifically and forever, because if this is what the rest of his life is going to be like, existence going forward is the very definition of cruel and unusual punishment. It's not even much of a relief, really, when Anna settles a tentative hand on his back, because he can read her hesitancy too well now, can smell her bewilderment and her still present warriness. It's not her fault, he knows, just like it isn't Bee's. It's still awful though, still stings, and he’s pretty sure first period is almost over by the time he gets his shit together enough to scrub the sleeve of his coat over his eyes.

"My sister hates me," he mumbles, wincing at how hoarse his voice comes out. Cool, as if it wasn't already regularly cracking, now he sounds like reheated death, too. 

"I'm sure she doesn't hate you," Anna consoles. "What is she, three this year? Four in a couple of months? She's probably just a little scared. You're the first person she knows that's presented, and she loves you. I'd be pretty startled too if someone I love showed up smelling so different."

Ben gives her a suspicious side-eye for that, but Anna very effectively avoids his gaze, instead fixated on the grass at her feet. "Is it really _that_ different?" He can't help but ask weakly. The thought makes him a little sick, the idea that his scent might now be so vastly off from his dad's and Phorh's that it's nearly unrecognizable. No, please no. He needs that. It's the one thing he had for so long, he _can't_ have a different scent. 

This time it is a relief, a sigh of it escaping him when Anna says, "No, not that different. It's just sharper now, I guess," she admits. "Your family scent is sort of like a backdrop, while the alpha smell, the part that's just you, is at the forefront."

Ben thinks he sort of remembers a similar explanation in one of his sex-ed classes. Unique scent identifiers develop during puberty, but kids will almost exclusively smell like their parents until then. Again, knowing being half the battle doesn't do anything to make the situation better, and Ben drops his head back into his hands with another sigh. It also definitely doesn't help when Daonua shows up awhile later, curious as to why they haven’t been in class, only to laugh hysterically in his face. 

" _Alpha_!?" She gasps, clutching her sides. "You got _alpha_!?" As if puberty is some kind of sick game of Russian roulette. Although, now that Ben thinks about it, it sort of feels that way. His distress must still be obvious on his face, because Daonua follows that already annoying bit by holding her arms out and cooing, "Aw, it's okay. Auntie Dao still loves you."

Ben throws one of his textbooks at her, history to be exact since it's the heaviest one. "Auntie Dao" his ass. Get fucked. 

He forgives her when she brings him not just one, but two slices of cake at lunch though. Only a true best friend would know the true way to drown his sorrows is with copious amounts of food. 

~~~***~~~

Bee still hates him when he shuffles into the house after school. Hell, she practically dives under the kitchen table straight out of her booster seat when she sees him, oblivious to his dad's startled squawk in her haste to flee the very sight of her brother. 

Ben watches her do it, bites his lip, throws his backpack down, and stalks off down the hall. It's fine. It's fine. _It's fine_. 

It's really not fine.

He doesn't even realize he's passed up his own room for his parents' until he's crawling under the comforter. The fact that he notices it at all makes him sick, the obviousness now in the difference of their scents twisting harsh claws inside him until he’s choking on thick, heaving sobs again. He hates this. _It's not fair_. He just wants to smell like his fucking family again so that his sister won't hate him. Is that really so much to ask for?

A weight dips the mattress beside him, a broad and familiar hand pressing into the space between his shoulder blades as Ben sucks in another wet and staggered breath. "Oh, luuk," his dad whispers. "Please don't cry. You're breaking my heart. I promise you it's not nearly that bad. It just seems that way."

He's wrong, Ben thinks miserably. It is that bad. It's the worst thing that's ever happened to him. But when his dad ruffles back the folds of the comforter around him, nuzzles into the top of his head with a consoling, sympathetic purr, Ben isn't ashamed to twist around and cling to him. He buries his face in his dad's chest, his arms tight around his middle as he shakes with more unsteady breaths, desperate to hide his tears as careful hands card into his hair with slow and soothing strokes. 

"Bee is three," his dad reminds quietly. "And she loves you _so much_. From her perspective, her big brother went away for a few days, and then some other guy who looks like him came back. That's scary for her. And she misses you," he adds, as if that doesn't make everything worse. Ben squeezes his eyes shut, breath hitching on the inhale. "She asked me where you were today," his dad goes on. "She loves you. She just doesn't understand what happened."

"Will she though?" 

Ben can't bear to think otherwise. The very thought has him shuddering with another deep, agonized sound. What if Bee never recognizes him? Dad is right, she's only three. There's no way to explain to her what happened, not in a manner she'll understand. They were close, Ben thinks weakly, thoroughly heartsick now. Just a week ago she would run to greet him the second he got home from school. Now she's actively hiding from him. What if she never goes back to that? What if she's scared of him forever?

His dad must have called Phorh home from work early, because he stays with him in the room for the rest of the night, and clearly someone else must be looking after Bee. He feels bad about it later, when he wakes back up from where he must have fallen asleep to find his dad still sitting beside him, fingers of one hand threaded into Ben's hair where his head is pillowed in his lap. A glance at the clock tells him how late it is, and another at his dad's face gives away that he must have cried, too. His eyes are just the tiniest bit red, a little puffy. Ben hates that just as much as he hates everything else, if not more. He knows his dad is taking medication right now, he's seen the bottle in the bathroom cabinet. The realization that he's made his dad cry on top of that actually makes him nauseous. 

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

His dad blinks, staring down at him for a long, surprised second before his expression twists with obvious dismay. "Ben, _no_. Don't be sorry. What are you even sorry for?"

"I'm being stupid," Ben admits. "I'm . . . I'm such a _baby_. Who gets this upset over presenting? It happens to everyone, right? The fact that I've basically done nothing but cry about it is . . . I'm so dumb."

For some reason that makes a certain, unfamiliar sort of agony flash across his dad's face. Ben can't even begin to describe it, the clear but quick anguish he sees just fleeting enough to spot, but not lingering enough to taint the air. " _Luuk_ ," his dad says, fierce and somehow horrified. " _No_. You're not dumb, please don't say that. It's alright to be upset, everything is so new for you right now, believe me, I get it. But no matter what it’s going to be fine, and we all still love you." There are tears in his eyes as he says it, an odd desperation to his tone that Ben can't parse out the reason for. He brushes Ben's bangs back from his forehead, presses a kiss to the line of his hair and nuzzles into his neck until the mixed scent of them lingers in the air. Ben goes limp against him as he does it, relief brimming tears to his eyes, too. It's not that different. He can smell it now. "We love you _so much_ ," his dad reiterates. "So, so much. Presenting will never change that. You know that, right?"

He does. Of course he does. But the reassurance still sinks into his very bones, a renewed and weighted comfort. And if he weeps under that respite, lulled by the familiarity of his dad's presence and scent and purr that he’s sought solace in for as long as he can remember, that's just between them. 

~~~***~~~

Unfortunately, there's not a whole lot he can really do to try and earn back Bee's favor. She's not slighted, she's _upset_ , scared because her little, toddler level instincts have labeled him as a stranger to her. Kids her age, Ben knows, are still extremely reliant on the comforts of touch and smell above everything else. There's not much he can accomplish via action when what she's looking for just simply isn't there anymore. 

It doesn't really stop him from trying, but it does add a rather disheartening, futile air to his attempts. 

He only realizes after filling all of Bee's Rilakkuma lunch containers with her favorite foods that she probably won't know the difference between his cooking and Phorh's, especially not when all of the recipes he used were taught to him by Phorh, anyways. Their little, dead-eyed, teddy bear faces mock him when he stacks them up in the fridge for her regardless. 

There's a stuffed dinosaur sitting in his chair at the kitchen table when he slinks in late that night to get himself something to eat, long after Bee has already gone to bed so that dinner isn't an entire fiasco of tears. Again. He picks it up and gently moves it to her booster before heating up the covered dish Phorh left out for him on the counter. 

He's still sitting at the table when his phorh comes home from his night shift hours later, his food mostly untouched and cold again. Really, he's not that hungry, but the worried look Phorh gifts him with when he slides into the opposite seat tells him he probably should be. 

"It might take awhile, you know," he says quietly, and Ben winces. "She's three, luuk. The best you can probably do is just wait for her to understand."

Ben frowns down at the table and promptly decides that he doesn’t want to do his best, he wants to do _better_. 

He doesn’t want to overwhelm Bee, though, so he waits a few days before he tries again. Meanwhile, he lives like a ghost in his own house. It might work more in his favor, maybe, if he just tries to behave normally. But Bee starts tearing up whenever he doesn’t give her enough space, and even though his dad always quickly assures him that it’s not his fault, it definitely feels like it is. He hates it. A lot. Every time she shuffles to hide behind something, or races away to seek shelter in Dad’s arms, it hurts. 

In one pretty spectacular instance, he accidentally surprises her when she wanders into the backyard while he’s out on the porch reading, and in her haste to turn around and dive back into the safety of the house, she trips on the frame of the sliding glass door and falls face first back into the living room. It’s a carpeted landing, of course, and she’s not injured. But she’s obviously startled, and that alone is more than enough to make her burst into tears again. To Ben’s annoyance, his dad just gives him A Look from where he’s watching on the sofa a few feet away, one that plainly says, “Fix it,” even though he knows very well Ben can’t do that right now. Gingerly, Ben gets off the wicker chair he’d been curled in and picks Bee up at arm’s length, setting her on her feet again within the safety of the house. 

She stops crying, her upset sniffles cutting off into an abrupt and sharp hiccuping sound. Her wide brown eyes cast him a teary, wary look over her shoulder for a second as he lets her go, and for a tentative heartbeat he thinks he might have made progress. But then she’s scrambling away again, reaching truly impressive speeds for her size as she practically flies across the room to climb up into Dad’s lap. She wraps her arms around his neck, burying her face in the safe comfort of his scent glands there with an audible whimper. 

Ben hates everything.

“You tried,” his dad assures, as if any of that had been his decision. Ben gives him a withering glare and closes the sliding glass door between them.

There’s another stuffed dinosaur on top of his school bag the next morning. He picks it up and puts it on the couch before he leaves for school, a distant and absentminded motion in the early hours of the day.

On Tuesday he brings her home a flower crown. Fake flowers of course, a specialty of his uncle Frong’s shop and completely custom made. Bee’s favorites are bright sunflowers and pink roses, and he’s included faux representations of both along with a line of cute daisies at the back where the ribbon can be tied. But when he leaves it in the living room for her to find, he’s dismayed to discover it wrapped around the neck of yet another stuffed dinosaur later, this one left directly outside his bedroom door. 

"I think she liked the box it came in more," his dad admits over dinner that night, pointing to where the decorative giftbox has been given a place of child-deemed honor in the center of the coffee table, now even more decorated with stickers and finger paint. Ben decides to count that one as a semi-win, even if the original intention of the gesture clearly missed the mark. 

At the very least, he thinks he _might_ be making some headway. Bee _sort of_ accepted the gift, and she definitely ate all the food he made. So that’s good. Right?

He tries to keep that in mind when, by the end of the week his dad is at least able to get her to sit at the same table as him for meals. She gives him a hard side-eye throughout, practically radiating cautious curiosity in how she won’t make eye contact or speak to him directly.

“Hey, bumble-Bee,” his phorh says while he passes out slices of cake for dessert, “do you know who made this for you?”

“Phorh,” Bee answers immediately.

“No,” Phorh corrects as he sets a little slice in front of her. It’s chocolate, of course, with buttercream icing. “Ben did.” He glances over to where Ben is sitting on the seat furthest from her, and Ben straightens as his sister’s gaze warily meets his for just a brief, barely there second before she focuses on the pastry offering before her instead.

“Ben did,” she echoes quietly.

For a second Ben thinks he’s done it, he’s won her over, but the next he’s stricken to see big, fat tears rolling down her cheeks as she heaves in a shuddering, wet breath.

“Oh, Bee,” his dad sighs, sweeping her out of her booster seat with a low, sympathetic purr. She clings to him instantly, muffling hitched sobs into the crook of his neck as he starts to pace the room with her. 

Ben sinks down in his chair, slumping as far as he can go. Great. He’s made her cry _again_. And this one seems almost more distraught than the first time, genuine grief clear in every wail she gasps out. For fuck’s sake, Ben thinks miserably. He’s basically _died_ to her if that’s what this has been building up to. It makes his heart hurt, watching her weep into his dad’s shoulder, makes tight anguish of his own drag through him, too. He really has become a ghost in his home, at least to his sister. 

This is the worst.

Neither his dad nor Phorh ask him to leave the table though, if anything Dad’s steps keep periodically pacing closer to him while he tries to console Bee. “I’m right here, Bee,” he can’t help but whisper. It only gets him a tear-filled stare though, another hitching inhale. Ben watches Bee look at him, takes in how her nostrils flare before she hides her face away against their dad’s shoulder again, shaking her head in time with her uneven, upset sobs. 

He leaves the table of his own volition, his cake slice untouched.

The next day he almost cracks his head open on the wall opposite his bedroom door when he oversleeps, rushing out to get to the bus stop on time and tripping over another stuffed dinosaur. He picks it up just long enough to figure out what kind of dinosaur it is (stegosaurus), and file that info away for later. Bee’s fourth birthday is in a few months, and if he hasn’t managed to get on her good side again by then, he can probably earn a few affections just by adding to her already absurd prehistoric plush collection.

He tells Anna about his newest idea during lunch, only to be thrown off guard when she says, “Wait. Isn’t this, like, the fourth dinosaur toy of hers you’ve practically stepped on this week?”

“She has at least a dozen of them,” Ben explains with a vague wave of his hand. Phorh brings her back a new one every time he has to attend an out of town medical conference, something that’s becoming a more regular occurance the closer he gets to completing his degree. Ben gets cool candies from confectionary shops he visits while there. So they’re both equally spoiled, he figures, just in different ways. “The number doesn’t matter,” he continues, “I just need to find one that she definitely doesn’t already have, so-”

“Ben,” Anna interrupts. “How many dinosaurs have you found this week?”

Ben frowns, “I don’t know. At least four, like you said.” There have been a few others, maybe, he decides if he really thinks about it. Plush dinos left out on the bathroom counter, or the living room sofa, places where he didn’t bother to move them because they weren’t necessarily in his way. “Why?”

“Could it be that she’s, just maybe, leaving them out for _you_?”

It’s like a bucket of cold water, really. Or maybe hot, what with the sudden, warmed feeling that blooms in his chest until it pulls a tentative, hopeful smile to his face. “Wait. Really? You think?”

“They’re her favorite, right?” Anna encourages. “Isn’t it a little weird that she’s just leaving them around willy-nilly all of a sudden? Wouldn’t it make more sense that she’s putting them where you can find them?”

Giddy now, Ben mentally catalogues all the places he’s found them over the past week. Now that Anna has pointed it out, they’ve definitely mostly been put in places that are associated with him. His chair at the table, his school backpack, and twice now outside his room. But while it makes sense, he falters to figure out why she would be doing it at all. “Why would she give me her dinosaurs? She doesn’t even recognize me.”

“I think she sort of does,” Anna hedges. “She’s not stupid, and even though kids her age don’t really identify people primarily by sight, she’s not blind, either. She’s just having trouble matching the image of you to the scent she’s relied upon to recognize you literally since she was born, that’s what’s freaking her out.” Anna cups a hand to her mouth as she finishes saying it, barely managing to repress a snort of a laugh. “Wait. Oh my god? You two have been doing the same thing. That’s so fucking _cute_.”

Ben scrunches his face up. He really wasn’t going for cute, but okay. “What do you mean we’ve been doing the same thing?”

“You’ve been attempting to win her over with gifts and food,” Anna snickers into her hands, “and Bee has been trying to get her brother she knows back _with dinosaurs_. Oh my god, I’m going to cry. That’s so cute. That’s the best.”

Ben kind of wants to cry too as she says it, the mixture of elation and relief in his chest almost overwhelming. Before now most his attempts had felt fruitless, but now he can't help but wonder if Anna is right. It's such a weird, childish thing, something Bee would absolutely think is a good solution to a problem she has no explanations for. He tears up anyways, just a little, grateful when Anna only laughs at him a little. 

There’s a dinosaur on his bed when he gets home. Bee's favorite one, Ben notes with a pang, the triceratops that’s already a little love-worn in the places she tends to hold onto it the most. It’s half hanging off the side of his mattress, perfect height and position for someone Bee’s size to have placed before running out of the room. Anna wasn’t wrong, he realizes as he picks it up and gives it a pat on the head. Bee has been trying, too.

When he turns to take it back to somewhere she can find it without getting spooked, though, he’s startled to see her peering around the edge of the doorframe at him. A quick parting of his lips and an inhale gives away that his dad is in the hall too, just out of sight but near enough to serve as a quiet comfort if Bee gets too upset again. Slowly, Ben moves to sit down on the carpet rather than his bed, his legs folded under him and the plush toy still in his grasp. 

Bee doesn’t move. Her little hands are white-knuckled around the wood of the doorway, her eyes saucer-sized and every breath she takes a deep, obvious inhale of a child trying to parse out a situation through scent. Ben sits as still as he can, desperate to come off as non-threatening as possible somehow, now that familiarity isn’t something he can rely on. He’s not sure what else to do, what he can offer her to prove that he’s still the same person other than what he’s already been doing. Phorh was right, he just has to wait. 

Slowly, so slowly, Bee edges a bit further into the room. She has her fist halfway in her mouth, an old infancy comfort Ben knows gets renewed with stress. Should he say something, he wonders? Or has his voice already changed just enough, too, that she won’t recognize that either. Screw it, all he can really do is try.

“Hey, Bee,” he whispers.

She’s a few steps into the room now, still near enough to the door to bolt, and she freezes as soon as he speaks. Fuck. Her fist pops out of her mouth, and Ben’s heart clenches as he sees her lower lip wobble, the threat of tears prickling the corners of her eyes. God damn it. “ _Bee_ ,” he pleads. “Bee, it’s just me. I promise.”

Bee sniffles, and she’s close enough this time that Ben can actually smell how scared and upset she is, and that just makes everything worse all over again. “I miss you, Bee,” he tries, his own desperation rising. He’s not sure he’ll be able to bear it if she cries again, let alone live through another week or more of her hiding whenever she sees him. “Please don’t cry. Please, Bee, I don’t know what else to do.” He really, really doesn’t, and the idea of having to wait any longer for Bee to come around makes him sick. “I miss you,” he reiterates, his hands twisting around the tail of the stuffed dinosaur. 

She inhales again, dangerously close to a full-on sob with how the breath hiccups back out of her, but the sound is a respite when she follows it with a hitched and agonized, “ _Ben_.”

Hesitating for only a second, Ben sets the dinosaur aside and holds his arms out for her instead.

Bee almost falls over herself in her haste to get to him, tripping on nothing when she collapses into his arms with a high and wavering wail. Their dad peeks his head around the corner when she does so, alarm shifting into obvious fondness when he sees that Ben has scooped her up into his lap and is nuzzling into her hair. “There we go,” he says, a little inordinately pleased in Ben’s opinion for someone who was technically just an observer. 

She’s a mess, Ben notes while Bee falls apart, days worth of what was probably far too much emotion for someone so young overflowing now. But she doesn’t let go, hands tangled in the front of his shirt while she buries her face in the hollow of his throat. There’s a mantra of his name in her sobs, as if repeating it will solidify him into someone more real and make up for the past week. It breaks his fucking heart, but it's hard to focus on that when everything else is such a relief. 

Or at least it is for all of ten minutes until he realizes he now has a full koala-level-cling Bee on his hands, probably for the rest of the night at minimum, and then he's just _concerned_. 

"Are you sure this is okay?" He asks once she's managed to stop crying, a good half hour of pacing the house with her later. He isn't very good at purring for her, like the way his parents are, and his is still rather childishly quiet. It's not yet that deep non-beta rumble his dad and Phorh manage most of the time. Still, she seems content enough, half asleep at his shoulder with a death grip on his shirt. 

His dad gives her head a quiet, considering sort of pet, his expression unreadable for a moment before he grins. "Pretty sure she's just trying to refamiliarize herself with you. It's fine. I can try and take her if it's too much, though," he adds. 

Ben shakes his head. He should probably at least try and handle it himself, he figures. This is, after all, more or less what he wanted. 

Bee is still clingy by the time his phorh gets home, tucked up securely against his side in his bed, face smushed on his chest and one of her dinosaurs clutched across his stomach. He takes a picture for Anna, unsure of whether or not to be flattered or annoyed when she sends him back a series of laughing and crying emojis punctuated by a single red heart. It _seems_ like a good response, so he screenshots it for prosperity. Like one does.

Phorh sits on the edge of his mattress, still looking a little bedraggled from a long shift. "You made up?" He asks, only just loud enough to be heard without waking Bee.

Ben shrugs. It's not like they were fighting (he's not even sure they could have a real fight, considering that Bee is _three_ and the worst part of her day is a cheerio being an unexpected shape). But he supposes that the wording is more or less correct, and at the very least they _seem_ to be okay, even if Bee has mostly just been quiet since she decided to octopus herself onto him. It worries him, actually, despite how his dad had waved it off as fine. "She hasn't said much," he admits softly. "Is that . . . Okay?"

His phorh nods. "Bohn called me at work, so I looked into it a little. He’s not far off the mark about her trying to readjust. Bee's just a little overwhelmed right now, but she's clearly comfortable being with you again, and I think that's what matters."

Ben cards an absentminded hand through her hair. If Phorh says she's fine, then she's fine. "Should I try and get her to go to bed in her own room?" He whispers. 

"No. Not unless she's bothering you. But I can take her if she is." Ben shakes his head. His phorh sits there for a second longer, an almost disgustingly fond smile curling at the corners of his mouth. Ben scrunches his face up ahead of the expected praise before it's even spoken aloud. "I'm really proud of you, you know," Phorh says.

"Ew."

"Don’t 'ew' me. I am," he laughs. "I don't . . . It's not really a secret that I don't exactly have a very high opinion of a lot of other alphas," he confesses, and yeah, Ben has suspected that for awhile. There's a very vivid memory framed in his mind, not yet worn enough with time for him to not recall it with total clarity, of his phorh growling while holding him, teeth bared at someone Ben considers a grandfather only by genetics. "So I'm really glad," his phorh goes on, "that you've already proven yourself to be a good one."

Ben frowns. "I wasn’t trying to be a good alpha," he admits, confused, because he wasn't. "I was just trying to be a good brother." Or any brother, really. He had been scraping the bottom of the barrel, desperate for some acknowledgement in that regard. He had _named her_ , and the thought that he had lost Bee's affection for him because of something he couldn't control had been almost more devastating than he could bear. 

Phorh just smiles at him though, his eyes taking on that happy, familiar crescent curve that Bee mirrors so often. "Yeah. I know," he assures. "But that's what makes you a good alpha, too. You wanted to be a good person first. I'm really, really proud of you, Ben."

Ben presses a hand over his flaming cheeks, peeking out between his fingers as he whispers another vehement, flustered, " _Ew_." But his other arm tightens just a little around Bee as he says it, keeping her close. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are always loved!


	4. Forged In Fire, You and I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You know," his father says, "I would have preferred you choose a female omega."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the vaguely alluded to confrontation mentioned in part three of Anchors On a Distant Shore. It takes place between All Our Histories Laid Bare and Tense: Past, Future, Present Perfect.
> 
> Trigger warnings, maybe, for discussions of purity culture and its toxicity.

In truth, Duen never meant for Bohn and his father to meet. In a perfect world they wouldn't have to. Hell, sometimes Duen isn't sure _he's_ met his own father. Whenever he's actually home it just feels like a stranger is visiting. A very critical, overbearing stranger, who happens to actually be related to him. And really, Duen doesn’t _hate_ his father. Hate is a strong word. He's just, at best, rather indifferent. Once, years ago maybe, he'd been young enough to desperately want his attention. But that was before he'd gotten to the age range of presenting, when he was simply pining for the love of a mostly absent parent, and not staring down the barrel of that same parent telling him he had to be more assertive, more masculine, more outgoing. He'd been told he would never present as alpha if he didn't put on these airs of everything he wasn't. And then he'd ended up alpha anyways, because that isn't even remotely how it works. 

So no, Duen doesn’t hate his father. He just doesn't especially care for him. 

But his father’s blatant, often stated opinions on alphas are burned into his brain anyways, and he knows deep down, with that horrible, sinking certainty, that his father will have something equally harsh to say about Bohn.

And it has nothing to do with Bohn not being an alpha. Of course not. God fucking forbid, Duen tries not to think about what wouls have happened if Bohn had been anything _but_ omega. 

It has everything to do with the fact that Duen has chosen him at all. 

They meet by accident. 

Duen is used to picking both Daonua and Ben up with Bohn every Thursday by that point, eager to let both kids play together while they make dinner. It's extra exciting this week too, Duen's plans for moving in solidified enough that they've started making tentative steps towards having Ben move in full time within the next few months. Bohn is quiet, but clearly pleased, too nervous about everything to get as vocal about it as he might usually. Which is fine, because Duen has _charts_ , super cool ones he made to show the ideas he's come up with to make Ben’s transition to living with them permanently as smooth as possible. He doesn’t even realize they've arrived at the school until the car is parked, and Bohn is giving him that vaguely amused and enamored look that always makes him blush.

"You want me to go get the kids and leave you and your graphs alone for a little while?" He teases. 

Duen scowls at him. "They're charts."

"Oooh. Okay," Bohn corrects himself, all faux amazement. "Do you want me to leave you and your _charts_ alone for awhile and I can go get the kids?"

Just for that, Duen responds with a terse, "Yes," huffing when Bohn just laughs and leans over the center console to peck him on the cheek. 

They're pretty good charts, Duen thinks to himself, not really all that perturbed by Bohn’s dismissal of them. And they're actually mostly based on what he's read about child development and parental bonding with adopted and fostered children. Technically Ben is neither of those things, but he doesn't know that, so Duen suspects that the best way to approach the matter is to act as if he is. All in all though he's actually fairly certain Ben will adapt to the change just fine. He's a fairly amicable kid, and Duen has never gotten the impression he's particularly close to Bohn’s parents. The fact that he’s held on to Bohn’s scent as his own and not theirs is a testament to that. 

He's so caught up in mulling that weird bit of biology over that he doesn’t notice at first that it's been just a little too long since Bohn left, and when he casts a glance towards the window to find out why he hasn't returned, his stomach drops so fast he might as well have been on an amusement park ride. 

Bohn is standing about a dozen meters from the car, his back to Duen. Ben is in front of him, held close enough that the loop of Bohn’s arms around him is loose to keep him oblivious to what's happening, but the posture of it a clear indicator of protective unease to any presented adult. Duen’s hackles are up the second he notices it, his hand on the handle of the door before he finally takes in the full picture and sees exactly who Bohn is talking to.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. 

Duen is out of the car before he even fully registers that he’s moved at all, halfway across the grass in long, quick strides that definitely give away how panicked he is. 

He didn't think his father was supposed to be home for at least another week. This is _bad_ , he doesn't even know what he's going to say. Hell, he would rather not even say anything at all, he'd never planned to. He hasn't actually given a shit what his dad thinks about him and what he does with his life since he was fifteen. But he does, unfortunately, very much care about what his dad might say about or, god fucking forbid, _to_ Bohn. 

His mind is blank when he reaches them, his eyes taking in the full scope of the situation in a heartbeat. Bohn is definitely trying to give off something resembling calm, and he’s done an excellent job at repressesing his unease for the most part. Scent wise, Duen can’t even tell he’s worked up, and he’s more used to Bohn’s chemically suppressed scent than anyone. But his grip on the front of Ben’s shirt is white-knuckled, and when he turns his head to give Duen his best attempt at a reassuring smile, he catches the hint of canines behind a lip that's a little too pulled back. 

_Oh, Bohn_. 

Duen’s heart is in his throat in an instant, and he swallows around a wave of dismay and agony he hopes none of the people here will smell. Of course Bohn is on edge, Duen’s father and his own are not so dissimilar for him not to pick up on it. They're both "traditional" alphas; strict, prideful, disdainful. And worse, _Ben_ is here, and Bohn will never not get defensive if he sees something or someone as a threat while his baby is there, no matter how old he is. And seven isn't that old at all, not really.

It is, however, just old enough for Ben to know that something is _wrong_. And his fear, unlike Bohn’s is hedging towards being palpable. 

First and foremost, Duen settles a firm hand on the small of Bohn’s back, stroking a thumb over his spine for a moment until he feels some of the tension there begin to uncoil. He hopes his quiet assurance is obvious, that Bohn is reading it in the exact way he means it. Everything is fine, and if it isn't Duen will make sure it is. "Hey," he whispers. It's a low enough murmur to give them some semblance of privacy, though not quite enough so that his father won't hear it. "Why don't you get the kids set in the car. I can take it from here." The look Bohn gives him is dark, resolute, his own message obvious. But Duen really, really doesn’t want any of this to come to blows, even if, he thinks a little proudly, it's highly likely that Bohn would actually win.

Duen’s dad might be an alpha, but he's not in his prime, and he's made the mistake of getting on the bad side of a young, fit omega in the presence of his child. Bohn would tear him to shreds if Duen let him. 

Unfortunately, he's not going to do that. 

"Bohn," he soothes, much softer this time. "Please. I'll join you in a minute," he promises. Shifting as he says it, he sets a hand to the back of Bohn’s neck to pull him closer, purring slightly as he presses their cheeks together before he lets him go. He brushes his wrist over Ben's head, too, for good and equally pointed measure.

Bohn seems satisfied with the gesture, his chest puffed and his eyes as bright as the smile he gives in return. "Alright. But shout if you need me," he adds. He holds out a hand towards where Daonua has been standing nervously between him and her father, and Duen does not miss the sharp spike of anger in the air when she readily takes it. 

He waits till Bohn has lead both kids to the safety of the parking lot though before he speaks. It's instinctive the way he pitches his voice into a monotone, years of deference to a parent, and then deference to a senior and socially superior alpha too ground into him not to slip into that. "I didn’t think you were coming back for another week," he says carefully.

His father’s stance is always so poised, a perfect model of authority that had kept Duen’s head down when he was small every time he tried to glance his way. With his arms folded over his chest he cuts an especially imposing figure. Even by nineteen, Duen is dismayed to find that he’s still half a head shorter, that he has to look up to address him, intrinsically aware of the vibe having to tilt his head to speak gives off. Intentionally or not, he's just bared his throat, and after a moment of consideration he changes his own standing, taking enough of a step back that the distance gives the illusion of eye level. 

His father, of course, notices what he's done immediately, and he lifts an eyebrow. "Your mother said you were moving out. I was curious about the sort of omega that could lure you away so quickly. The fact that I happened to come across him while picking up Daonua was coincidence."

That's an impressively blatant lie, Duen thinks, distaste brewing in his chest. Fuck, he really hates lying. "Well, you've seen him now. So we're leaving. Dao and Ben watch a movie and have a sleepover together on Thursdays; they're probably bouncing around in the car by now, and I don't want to keep them waiting."

He means it to be an end to the bare semblance of a conversation they're having, but to his annoyance, it isn't. 

"You know I would have preferred you choose a _female_ omega."

Duen’s lip curls before he can stop it, and he bites back on the first, totally instinctive notes of a growl. What _the fuck_. "That's a really, really old prejudice, you know," he intones stiffly, unwilling to face his father fully as he says it. Yes, the _majority_ of omegas are female, but that's still twenty percent that have male as their primary gender. What the hell year does his father think this is? Even if he'd asked Duen about when he would get a girlfriend before, he'd always just assumed he was thinly veiling that Duen needed to choose an omega mate, not . . . Fucking hell, he's not sure he's ever been this mad.

"Male omegas can't feed their offspring," his father says. Duen finally turns to face him head on, flabbergasted now that his own father is trying to explain basic biology to him, a _medical student_.

"Formula exists," he says, the words drawn out of him with utter disbelief. "And I don't care about any of that anyways."

His father’s eyebrow stays up, unimpressed with his declaration. "You know he's already been bred, right?"

The snarl rips out of Duen's lungs so fast he doesn't even fully process it. It’s deep, fiercely enraged, and he closes the distance between the two of them before it even finishes echoing in the air. "Shut. _Up_."

How dare he. _How dare he_! As if it's any of his business what Duen does or who he does it with. As if _Bohn’s life_ is something he should stick his nose into at all. But he is sticking his nose into it, seemingly uncaring that he's angered his own son as he says, "You know, when you actually presented as alpha, I expected better of you."

Duen gets a hand in the collar of his uniform, his entire arm shaking as he does it. "Don't talk about him like that! I chose him, he's _my_ mate! Bohn is the best fucking thing that _ever_ happened to me, and I'm not enough of a child anymore to let you speak of him that way!"

To his fury though, his father just cocks a smirk. "You say that like I'm slandering him. All I'm saying is the truth, Duen. He's been bred already, you can do better."

It's so cold, the blood in Duen’s veins like ice as he realizes nothing he says or does will ever change his father’s mind. He's looking at Bohn like his history makes him worthless, deems him trash. He doesn't even see Bohn as _human_. Duen’s jaw is so clenched, teeth so tightly bared, that it's starting to hurt. He feels sick, bile in the back of his throat. To his father, Bohn is nothing more than a thing to be used, something that’s dirtied once it is. He wonders, horror thick in every breath he takes, what that makes Ben to him. "He's my partner," he says slowly, his vision clouding. Fuck. Don't cry. Don't cry, not for _this_. Not now. "And Ben is _my_ son."

"He's not," his father snorts. 

"He is," Duen insists, and the growl is fully fledged now, untapered. "He is because I say he is. I'm part of his life. I put him to bed, take him to school, help him with his homework. I went to his fucking parent teacher conferences last week," he snaps. He wonders if his father will see the irony in what he's saying, if he'll realize he's making a list of everything he _never_ did for Duen. Probably not. "I take him to the movies! I go to his football games even though he's still figuring out which goal belongs to which team, and I cheer for him anyways _because he’s_ **_my son_**!"

He's done. He's done with this entire fucking, one-sided conversation. He hasn't cared what his father thinks of him in years, and he's certainly not going to start now. " _Fuck you_ ," he finishes, and he means it. 

To his surprise though, his dad grins, almost feral in the way he does it, and for a heartbeat Duen thinks they might actually come to blows. But instead he just snorts, disdainful to the last as he says, "You know, for a second there, you were _almost_ threatening me like a _real_ alpha."

Duen lets go, puts the right amount of force in it to make his father stagger back half a step. "Fuck you," he repeats, but this time the words feel dead on his tongue. 

And then he leaves.

~~~***~~~

It's a quiet dinner, even with the kids. Ben is pensive, and Daonua just as much so, clearly a bit put off by the tension she felt between her brother and father. And Bohn . . .

Every time Duen looks at him, Bohn doesn't quite meet his eyes. He doesn't seem upset, but something is definitely on his mind. And Duen’s not an idiot.

He waits until they have the kids set up in the living room, their energy renewed with bowls of popcorn and sleeping bags spread out in front of the TV, before he says anything.

"I may or may not have said 'fuck you' to my father," he says blandly, mildly distracted as he watches Bohn peel out of his shirt in what will soon be _their_ bedroon.

Bohn twists around to stare at him, mouth agape. " _What!?_ "

Duen shrugs. "He said some things. So I said some things. I don’t regret it," he says, just in case Bohn thinks he does. 

Bohn stares at him for a long, silent second, a tiny furrow between his brows. "Did he call me used goods, or something?"

" _Bohn_!"

He shrugs. "It's not like I haven't heard it before," Bohn says without inflection. "From my own father, no less," he continues, oblivious to how Duen is planning _a murder_ in his head. "I don't really give a shit, but you probably shouldn't defend me."

" _Bohn_ ," Duen says again, his heart clenching. "Why wouldn't I? I-"

"You'll make a career out of it, if you're not careful," Bohn interrupts. He’s so blasé about it, barely even pausing from where he’s undressing. "And I'm capable of speaking up for myself if I feel like it. I just don't, because I don't care what other people think of me."

There's not enough air in the room, Duen thinks, that's why it seems like it's spinning, why his chest hurts. "I care," he says hoarsely. "I don't want people to say that sort of stuff about you."

Bohn casts him an unreadable look over his bare shoulder. "You shouldn't. I only care about what _you_ think, or say, about me. And you . . . Don't, right?" There’s a level of uncertainty in his tone, a barely there note of trepidation that makes every atom in Duen’s body _ache_ when he hears it. 

He's on his feet in a heartbeat, all but collapsing against his boyfriend as he crosses the room to bury his face in the crook of his shoulder. "No, of course not. I _never_ have." Not ever, not even for a second. The only thing he's ever been hesitant about is Bohn’s affection for him, whether it would last, and that had everything to do with his own feelings of inadequacy, and nothing to do with Bohn’s past. "I told my father Ben was my son," he whispers thickly.

It's not like he’s never said it before, never told Bohn that he wants the three of them to be a family. But still, he's not entirely surprised when Bohn tenses against him, the hands that had been tracing tentative shapes on his back stilling. It's one thing to say it in private to each other, and it's entirely another to declare it in the face of a third party, let alone his own father. " _Duen_ ," Bohn breathes. " _Why_ -"

"Because he is. _He is_ ," Duen insists. "I know he calls me 'phorh' as a game, but I want him to call me that for real. I want us to be a _family_ , Bohn. We practically already are." Soon. _Soon_. And never soon enough.

His life is a ball of thread, a tightly clutched remote. He can't help but want to pull it, just a little, hit fast-forward until they spin past all the parts like this that hurt, that tremble with uncertainty still in every breath. But in all these too-quiet moments, he still finds that future waiting, halcyon gold in its eventuality. Someday. Someday, someday, someday _soon_.

There's a drip of moisture on his shoulder, and he straightens up enough to glimpse Bohn doing his damndest to sniffle back tears. "You’re too much," he whispers, "sometimes." Every word hangs in the air between them, overwhelmed, overwrought, thick with what Duen fears will always be an ever present grief for Bohn. For Duen, he feels like he's only just begun, but Bohn already carries with him a lifetime of agony earned too young, too early, one unprepared for. "What did I do to deserve you?" He asks.

"You were _you_ ," Duen reminds steadily. "Bohn, _you were you_. Every bit of you, all of it, everything that made you the version of you I got to meet. I love that. I love _you_."

Bohn inhales, a sharp and jagged sound, injured in its own right, a match to the scar on his abdomen. "I love you too," he says.

And maybe, selfishly, that's what Duen loves best about him. Bohn looked at a world full of people, glanced away from all those actually vying for his attention, and saw _him_. Unremarkable, unaccomplished, wary and uncertain, and he’d found something in Duen he thought was worth it.

What a fool his father is, Duen thinks as he kisses his boyfriend, brushes away his tears. Wouldn't it pain him to know that every faulty flaw he saw in his son, someone else found so brilliant and wonderful that they fell in love with it. 

His family, Duen decides, is the one he makes for himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I wrote and edited this chapter and the last and posted them all in the same day. I can't let this verse go, I will take it with me into hell when the sun swallows the earth.
> 
> Anyways, leave me comments. I'm also dragging all of you who have stuck with this shit with me. We are all ride or die now. Congrats.


	5. Alpha/Beta Dynamics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Duen glares at him, hands on his hips. King regrets every single decision that led him to this moment.
> 
> "I don't want to talk about Ram's dick," he sighs. And then, after a brief and reluctant second of consideration, he adds, "At least not any more than necessary."
> 
> Because, unfortunately, he's pretty sure biology might be part of the problem. A fact that's pretty much confirmed when Bohn flops over onto the sofa and, chin in hands, asks, "So does he knot you, or what?"
> 
> "Bohn!" Duen snaps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forward note that if you came here just for the RamKing and didn't read any of the entire series of fics in this verse because they're BohnDuen centric, I know, and I am judging you immensely.

"Is it because I'm a beta?" He asks once over dinner. It slips out, unbidden, thoughtless, but he can't take it back. The second the last syllable leaves his tongue King regrets it, and he sits there, horrified as Ram stares at him from the other side of the table. 

". . . What?" He asks quietly, so many questions in just one word. 

It's too late to take it back, King knows, but still he holds his breath. They can just brush this off, right? Toss it under the bed with every other thing they don't talk about that they maybe should? But King’s own agony prickles under his skin, the first notes of a new grief, but an old uncertainty already in the air. So he says it, all of it, those locked away misgivings laid out in a single, rushed breath. "Is it because I'm a beta that you won't spend your ruts with me?"

The look that crosses Ram's face can really only be described as stricken. It is, perhaps, the most emotion King has _ever_ seen in his expression, and the scent of his dismay is palpable in the air. But he doesn't say anything, and by now King is very, very aware that for Ram, silence is an answer all its own.

"I knew it," he says weakly. And he did, he did know it. Of course that's why. Ram is an alpha. King is a beta, an _alpha-leaning_ beta. Of course he wouldn't. 

"P'King," Ram says, hoarse, horrified. "No, that's not-"

"Please don't lie to me," King says, and even though he's trying so, so hard to keep his tone even, his voice still breaks. 

He's not an idiot. They’ve been together for a little over two years now, and Ram has _never_ spent a rut with him. He'd done them alone, and though he hasn't been aggressive in his refusal of King's offers, he's also never even remotely considered them. His rejections have always been a simple, short and clipped, " _No_."

Which is fine, you know? People have boundaries. Ruts and heats are pretty private. Hell, King's best friend had spent all of his own heats alone until he got together with Duen. But that's just it, isn't it. 

It's wrong, maybe, to say he envies the level of trust Bohn and Duen have built with each other to spend their cycles together. That takes a lot of commitment, a lot of love. So yeah, he’s jealous. And he'd been sort of guilty about that.

Before.

Apparently though, he had a right to be. 

"I think I'm gonna go stay at Bohn’s tonight," he hears himself say before he actually thinks it through. 

" _P'King_ -"

King shakes his head, pushing away from the table to head towards their bedroom. He trails his fingers through the hanging greenery on his way, a small comfort before he gets to the dresser and starts shoving clothes into a bag. Ram is on his feet too, following him to stand in the doorway, his hands fisting open and closed at his sides. It's the first time King really, really regrets how well he's able to read him, because even without the blatant scent of his distress in the air, he can see every tiny sign of Ram's agony in his body. It's there in the widening of his eyes, the upward furrow of his brows, the barely-there tremble that makes its way down his spine. "P'King," he tries again, " _please_ , I-"

"I just need to think," King interrupts again. "Can you let me have that? I don't . . . I don't know what to say to you, right now," he confesses, wavering in the breath he takes after. 

It hurts. He’d asked for the truth. And the truth _fucking hurts_. 

". . . Alright," Ram acquiesces, but again, there are a thousand things he says with just one word. 

And King hears every single one of them.

~~~***~~~

There aren't packs anymore, the hierarchy of them considered outdated, their politics old-world and too close-knit and private for a society now mostly built on cities and large, conglomerated expanses of populations. 

But if there were still packs, Bohn would be his pack leader (one of them, at least), and King can't help but wonder sometimes if the fact that he tends to seek him out in times of distress is part of that ancient instinct. It's not that he really looks to Bohn for any sort of direction or advice (ha!), but more that he’s just . . . Comfortable with him. However, it is just the tiniest bit unnerving that he finds even more solace in him now that Bohn is pregnant. That bit, that's a little weird. Maybe. Probably.

It's also why he's standing outside the apartment, shifting from foot to foot with nervous energy instead of entering. He didn't really think this through when he bolted from his own place. Bohn is _pregnant_ , he’s in the middle of moving house, which is stressful enough for anyone, let alone an expecting omega. And King did not call ahead for his sudden breakdown, because it was _sudden_.

He should get a hotel, he thinks bleakly, mull all this over by himself for a day or two. But he also really, really doesn’t want to do that. Fuck it, instincts or not, he's allowed to call upon his best friend when he's upset, right? Maybe crash at his place for a day or two? And perhaps grill him and his alpha boyfriend for some probably way too personal details on their sex lives so he can try and figure out why Ram won't fuck him during ruts?

Yeah. That seems fine. Super swell. Fantastic plan, King! Amazing!

He turns around to go find a hotel, or something, cursing internally at how much that makes his stomach twist. Damn it, he really wanted that sense of solace from those latent vestiges of pack proximity.

"You know we can smell you sulking from the other side of the door, right?"

King nearly jumps out of his damn skin, a scream gurgling and then dying in his throat as he whips back around to find Bohn leaning against the frame of the now open door. "Uh . . . I did not," he admits. "That's kind of impressive, though." His own senses definitely aren't that good on their best days, but he knows that alphas and omegas have much stronger ones to begin with.

Bohn shrugs, "Not really. It's actually a bit annoying. Everything got amped up with the pregnancy, especially for Duen." He snickers then as he waves a hand for King to come in. "For about a week he kept growling every time someone would pass down the hall outside the door. It was hilarious! He was _so_ embarrassed!"

Abruptly, King has to wonder if he came to the wrong people for help, because he apparently forgot that Duen and Bohn’s relationship is _fucking weird_ compared to his. Which is really only confirmed when Duen calls from another room, "Are you telling him about the growling thing!?"

"Yeah!" Bohn hollers back, way too giddy for King's tastes. 

Duen’s only further response is a long, put-upon sigh. 

"Anyways," Bohn says casually as he makes his way further into the apartment, weaving between stacks of boxes. "To what do I owe this unexpected visit?"

King stares at the ceiling for a long second, weighing his options. For Ram's sake he should probably try and be vague. But Bohn doesn't have a subtle bone in his entire body, and King is fairly certain that if he tiptoes around the subject too much he just simply won't get it, or worse, he will and he'll make _jokes_. King can't deal with jokes right now. Not about this. Not about Ram. 

"Ram won't fuck me," he says before he can second guess himself even more than he already has. 

Bohn’s mouth drops open, "Uuuuuuhhhhhhh . . . _Ever_? Or only during, uh-"

"During ruts," King confirms. 

Somewhere behind him, King hears Duen move from the master bedroom to Ben’s room, and after a second his shift is followed by the abnormally loud sound of a Disney production logo starting, and a door closing. King turns to give him a sheepish look over his shoulder, which Duen meets with a raised, extremely exasperated and unimpressed eyebrow. "If this is a thing we have to talk about right now, in this house, can we all please remember that it's barely seven at night, and there's a _nine year old_ living here?"

"Sorry," King whispers, an apology that Bohn quickly echoes around an unstifled laugh. 

"Also, if there's any way I can _not_ talk about this," Duen adds, cheeks flushed, "I would rather not be involved."

Bohn folds his arms over his chest, smirking, "You just don't want to talk about Ram's dick."

"I don't," Duen agrees. "Do _you_!?"

This was a bad idea, King decides, eyes fixed on the ceiling again. This was a very bad idea, and he’s an idiot. When he dares to look at them again, he's annoyed to find that Bohn’s expression has turned almost goading, teasing in the way he's still smugly smirking, his eyebrows wiggling. Duen glares at him, hands on his hips. King regrets every single decision that led him to this moment.

"I don't want to talk about Ram's dick," he sighs. And then, after a brief and reluctant second of consideration, he adds, "At least not any more than necessary."

Because, unfortunately, he's pretty sure biology might be part of the problem. A fact that's pretty much confirmed when Bohn flops over onto the sofa and, chin in hands, asks, "So does he knot you, or what?"

" _Bohn_!" Duen snaps.

"What? It's a valid question!" Bohn objects. He throws his hands in the air when Duen just smacks a palm to his own face. "It is! You know what it's like, Duen! You're an alpha, too! Don't give me that!"

Duen shuffles past King to sink into the sofa too, head in his hands. "This is already _so much_ ," he whines. "Do we really have to talk about this?"

"I'm not an idiot," King mutters. He tests one of the boxes before he sits down himself, finding it sturdy enough and earning no objections when he does so. "I know how to google shit, and it's not like I've never seen porn before."

Bohn gives him a long, considering look, back leaning against the armrest and his feet pulled up onto the cushions. "Duen, do you want to be the one to tell him that most heat and rut porn isn't real? Or should I."

King blinks, "I- _what_?"

"Except for the stuff labeled 'amateur,' with a still camera, yeah," Duen confirms. "It's not real. No alpha, whether with a long-term or a one-off partner, would let _anyone_ into the area if they were actually in rut, or taking a heated omega, let alone a cameraman or a director."

Bohn makes a rather flippant, if agreeable hand gesture. "Super fake. And the roughness of it is either really understated, like romance novel soft bullshit, or really overdone. Duen, remember that one where the omega got bit right on the-"

"Stop talking," Duen pleads. 

He's right, King realizes, this is _so much_ , and they've barely been talking for five minutes. Of course, rather than anything that would actually be helpful to him specifically, the next thing his traitorous brain decides is most important to ask next is an incredulous, "You guys watch porn together? _Why_?"

"Spice," Bohn says at the same time Duen contradicts it with, "Research." Neither bother to correct the other, and King decides that, actually, he's better off not knowing.

He holds his own hands up this time, a sign of universal surrender. Enough. He has definitely heard more than enough about stuff he didn't even want to hear about in the first place. "Look," he tries weakly, "I just . . . I just want to know why . . . He won't." More details aren't necessary, especially since that's all there is to it. King wants to. Ram won't.

"Probably the knot," Bohn says without inflection, perhaps a little too casually. "And I mean, if he isn't knotting you outside of the rut, that's almost definitely it." 

"I never said that," King mutters. It is true though.

"No answer is answer enough," Bohn returns. "Also, look, Ram's good to you, right?"

Something harshly defensive flares in King's chest. "Of course he is!" He practically spits. "What the fuck! Why would you even ask that?"

Duen has moved to sit a little closer to his boyfriend, one hand on Bohn’s knee when he gives him a quiet, tight-lipped side-eye, before he says to King. "He didn't ask it because he thinks Ram isn't," he draws the words out slowly, carefully, "but because he knows he is. Which means he probably has the same hangups most actually good alphas do."

"Biting, bruising," Bohn lists, "and then because you're a beta, you can add knotting and incompatible stamina. Also," he adds, hesitation finally creeping into his overly blasé tone. "There is the uh . . . Look," he takes a deep breath, "I know Ram is good to you, but . . . Cycles are . . . A lot of trust has to go into that," Bohn says, almost like it's a confession. "When you're all hormones and instinct, if stuff isn't agreed upon prior, if there isn't a really, _really_ specific level of trust, then it can get a bit . . . A bit wishy-washy," he whispers, "Uh . . . Consent wise." 

Oh.

Something sour roils in King's gut. "But not for you, right?" He has to ask, even though Duen is sitting right there, his lip curling in the face of King’s gall.

Bohn quickly shakes his head, "No! It's not- that's never-" He clears his throat. "You just . . . As an omega, you hear stories. People talk. And I know . . . I know that for some alphas, good ones, there's a concern that a lot of the rougher aspects of a rut are not consensual."

King watches, warry-eyed for a heartbeat, as Duen gives Bohn’s knee another squeeze, his mouth a thin line before he speaks. "If you're okay with that, you're going to have to tell him," Duen says stiffly. "Or he won't want to. Ram _is_ a good alpha," he states, stern in tenor. "I've always thought of him as one of the best. But he's very aware of the things that alphas are capable of, and if he doesn’t, uh . . ."

"You can say knot," Bohn snorts, earning a light smack to his thigh and an annoyed huff from his partner. 

"Fine. If he doesn't knot you," Duen continues, a pink tinge high on his cheeks, "It's probably less about lack of trust in you, and more in lack of trust in himself."

King feels his heart sink. Oh no. _Oh god_. If that's true . . . "I need to go home," he whispers hoarsely.

"Might be a good idea," Bohn agrees, nonchalant. "His feelings are probably hurt."

" _Bohn_! For fuck’s sake!" Duen hisses. "Can you use your brain-to-mouth filter just _once_?"

"I can not use what I do not have. And look! It's fine! There he goes!"

It's true, King is already leaving, practically bolting out the door in his rush to return to where he actually needs to be.

~~~***~~~

The apartment is dark when he gets home, the only lights still on are a few of the small lamps he has turned towards specific plants. King toes out of his shoes with a haste he usually reserves for dog-induced terror, kicking them onto the mat and practically skidding into the living room from the entryway. Ram isn't there, and a quick glance towards the kitchen, the balcony, reveals that there's really only one place he could be. 

Assuming he hasn't just fucking left, of course, because his boyfriend was an _asshole_ , King thinks bitterly.

Trepidation stirs high and heady in the air as he edges towards the closed door of their bedroom. There's a streak of gold along the bottom of it, a low spill of light leaking out from inside, and relief preemptively sinks into King's heart. Thank god. He presses a palm flat to the wood to ease it open, peeking inside with his breath held. 

Ram is laying on his back on their bed, the cadence to the rise and fall of his chest revealing that he’s not asleep, and when King pushes the door open a tad further he lets loose the air he'd been keeping in his lungs as he spots the little, familiar pot Ram has held in one hand. "You shouldn't move it around so much," he warns as he enters the room fully. "Flytraps are very fragile."

Ram sits up, wide-eyed and definitely startled. The flare of his nostrils gives away that King had managed to sneak up on him somehow, and he scrambles to set the venus flytrap back on their nightstand where it usually lives. "P'King, I-"

King cuts him off with a shake of his head. "No, _I'm_ sorry. I shouldn't have pried. If you wanted to spend your ruts with me, you would. I'm really-"

"I do."

His breath catches, a harsh stutter that makes King snap his mouth shut. "Excuse me?"

"I do want to," Ram repeats slowly. "I just . . . I could hurt you," he whispers. "If I'm not careful, I could really hurt you. And I don't want that." 

It's not that Ram talks too little, or too rarely. More often than not he just doesn't seem to find his words to be a necessity. And that's not restricted to King, or even to strangers. That's just how Ram is. But this, King realizes as he sits down on the bed beside him, is something that they _have to_ talk about. He offers Ram his hand, smiling through an abrupt urge to cry when Ram fumbles to take it. Now that they’re side by side he can see how puffy his boyfriend's eyes are. "Cool boy," he soothes, "why didn't you just say that?"

It was always "no," an explanation never offered or asked for. They’ve both, King suspects, jumped to all the worst conclusions, most of them apparently embroiled in a certain sort of self-loathing. 

Ram cups his other palm around the back of the hand he's already clutching, shaking his head. "I don't spend ruts with people. I never have. And as for heats . . . I . . ." He puffs out a long, uncertain sigh. "I bit an omega, once. Hard enough to bleed."

King lifts an eyebrow. He's not terribly shocked, he knows that Ram takes his role as alpha fairly seriously, and that he'd helped omega friends he was close to through heats before they got together. He has his principles, his pride. And Ram, regardless of how society has moved on, is tied to the roots of what a pack would have once asked of him. Preside, protect, provide. Bohn has always called him the "proper alpha" of their group, if only because Ram is the sole one of the three alphas among them who actually considers himself to be just that. Most people present and then move on, eager to continue their lives as normal. Ram had presented and seen before him a duty. He's never strayed from that.

And King loves that about him. Ram's fierce loyalty and love for his friends, his family (at least those he still considers family), is unparalleled. It's his greatest strength, his most admirable quality. If Ram is a proper alpha, it's because no one has ever quite managed to measure up. 

Still, the fact that even just someone else's heat hormones made Ram bite them, that's . . . "Were they okay?"

Ram nods. "You can ask her." _Ah_ , King thinks, _it was Tingting, then_. "She laughed it off after, but that was the last time I helped her. I wasn't comfortable with it anymore, wasn't comfortable with _myself_ ," he admits. 

King squeezes his hand. "Do you think you could be with me, though?" He asks. 

"The amount of prep we'd have to do," Ram says, almost too quietly to hear. "I wouldn't . . . _I don't know_."

King swallows, hurt, but this isn't about him. Not really. "What about outside of your ruts? Couldn't we at least try?"

He hopes, desperately, that he's coming across more eager than pushy. His breath hitches when Ram casts him a silent, considering glance, just enough for King to catch the slight, dark shift of his pupils expanding. _Ah_. "You want me to knot you," he says, not quite a question so much as a low and knowing statement. 

A shiver ripples down King's spine. "Yes."

It's easy to lean into Ram's touch when he reaches out to settle a palm to his cheek, and easier still for King to meet him halfway when he uses that affectionate gesture to kiss him. Ram always kisses him like he’s an oasis, foliage and water hidden away in the middle of a desert. The caress of his lips on his is slow at first, almost tentative in its candor, before he all but surges into him, fierce, fiery, thirsty for more as if he’s just crawled across sand for miles to find him.

King loves the fit of them together, the way Ram smooths his thumbs over his cheeks when he pulls away for the briefest breath. His eyes are dark, the ring of his irises thinner than King has ever seen them, and when he shifts to straddle King's hips, settle a hand in the center of his chest and silently urge him down, King goes. "You have to tell me if you need me to stop," he says, fingers already sliding under the hem of King's shirt. King nods. "Verbal answers," Ram orders tightly, and King whispers a hoarse, "Yes."

Ram wasn't wrong, it's a _lot_ of prep, way more than either of them usually need. By the time Ram seems satisfied, King is practically writhing, achingly oversensitive and pushed a little too close to the edge just from how drawn out the process has been. He'd complain, but King can tell how nervous Ram is, can see it in every unsure glance he thinks King doesn't notice in the dim lighting, can feel it in the tense line of his spine, taste it in the tremble of his lips as he mouths heated kisses over the juncture of King's neck. His cool boy is scared of hurting him, and if subjecting himself to abject torture via overstimulation eases some of his fears, King will gladly die on this cross.

His own misgivings though sneak up on him when Ram murmurs near his ear, "You’re going to have to roll over."

King freezes, the previously languid stroke of his hands across Ram's shoulder blades stilling in an instant. "Wha- why?"

The purr Ram gifts him is pitched low, slow, soothing as it rumbles where their chests are pressed together. King relaxes just a little under it, lulled into half-lidded contentment from the familiarity of the sound and feel of it alone. "The knot will stick, and this position is going to be uncomfortable on you of you're in it without any flexibility for a half hour."

Ah. Still though, King's never been super keen on being taken like that. There's a certain level of vulnerability to it that he isn't fond of. But it's been quite awhile since they've tried it, or, er, more aptly put it's been awhile since _King_ has tried it. "That's your position," he teases, earning the deadpan stare of a man who has suffered through two years of "doggie-style" jokes.

"It is," Ram confirms without inflection. 

The teasing ceases, and King clams up for a heartbeat before he asks, tentative, curious even in his trepidation. "And you . . . Like it, right?"

Ram sits up with a very much earned roll of his eyes. "P'King, if I have ever given you the impression that I somehow don't enjoy it when you fuck me-"

"No! No, no, no," King interrupts, mildly horrified he didn't word his question better. "I mean, uh . . ." Actually, he’s not really sure what he means. Or at least, he's not sure on how to say it without it coming out all wrong again. "You . . . You know I have . . . A thing about it though."

It has nothing to do with Ram, but there are certain memories that persist no matter how much King wishes they didn't. Like getting attacked by a dog. Or being hit in the head with a giant stick wielded by an urban wildman. You know, normal stuff. 

"I know," Ram whispers. Because of course he does. He knows King better than anyone. "You trust me though, don't you?"

"Yes," King breathes. 

Ram smiles, a swift and satisfied curl of his mouth before he leans down to murmur a quiet praise of, "Good."

King doesn't really need any more coaxing than that, and the next time Ram nudges gently at his hip he rolls over and gets his knees under him with a few more soft instructions. "Like this?"

"Yeah. That works," Ram returns, placing a reverent kiss along the back of King's neck.

King shivers under the attention, pressing his lips together to muffle a needy whimper as Ram settles against him. His arousal is obvious, the hot weight of it grinding across King's tailbone as he reaches around to palm at his cock, stroking a thumb over the head until King gasps. "D-don't. I'll come."

Ram hums, a tone that suggests that he wouldn't actually mind that, but after a pause, another jerk of his fingers along King's length as if he can't quite pass up the opportunity, he stops. His hands find his hips instead, and King bites back another desperate noise as he does so. "Do you want me to use a condom?" Ram asks over his neck. 

King blinks away a bit of his own arousal enough to attempt to process the question. "Uh, no? We don't usually . . ."

"For you," Ram reminds. 

Oh. That's right. Ram always pulls out when he comes. He won't be able to this time. "No," King repeats, surer this time. "It's fine."

Ram drags his teeth over his shoulder, the slight first vibrations of a growl thrilling in him. _Oh_ , King thinks a little dizzily, breath hitching as he hears it. _That's new_. "It'll be messy," Ram warns. 

He says it like they haven’t been fucking for a few years now. King huffs, grabbing a pillow to bury his face in so Ram can't see him roll his eyes as he snaps, "Yeah, I'm aware, cool boy."

It's always messy. Pulling out doesn't stop Ram from coming, King is _very_ privy to what his orgasms are like. Even outside of ruts alphas come quite a bit more than betas. Most of it usually ends up on King's chest and stomach, so he figures that, altogether, letting Ram come inside him is only slightly more of a cleanup than he's already used to. A tremble of anticipation ripples through him at the thought, and he wiggles his hips a little in his partner’s grip, impatient now that that mental image has made a home in his brain. "Come on," he whines. "Enough talk. I thought we were going to- _mm_!"

All Ram does is graze the head of his cock over his hole, but King shuts up immediately, fingers flexing in the plush gives of the pillow with another poorly held back, desperate whine. "You'll tell me if you don't like something?" Ram asks again. 

He clearly needs that last bit of reassurance, but King barely has the wherewithal to give it. "Y-yeah. Yeah. Of course, cool boy. Of course. Can you please just fuck me now?" Being prepped that much and for that long only to be left empty like this is starting to make him ache. Betas have needs too, god damnit, he’s not above being horny as hell when he wants to be, and right now he _wants to be_. He also very much wants his boyfriend's dick inside him, please and thank you very much. "Ram," he groans into the pillow. "Come _on_ . I- _ah_!"

He's not too startled when Ram's teeth dig into the base of his neck, it's not the first time he's been bitten. But there's a new pressure in it, a fresh and commanding amount of force, and coupled with the fact that Ram uses that to press into him, it takes his breath away. It has him panting, quivering by the time Ram finally bottoms out, which King realizes with delirious sort of glee, is something he's never done before. He can feel it for the first time, that slight extra girth that's already starting to swell _inside him_. " _Fuck_ ," he gasps with feeling, twisting his head to the side to get enough air to do it.

Ram releases the hold he has on his neck just enough to strain out a short, "Okay?"

"Peachy," King assures. He wiggles a little as he says it, searching for a better angle to adjust to, and Ram sucks in a hissing breath through his teeth. ". . . Are you?" He asks, just to be sure. He can't see Ram nod, but he feels the motion when Ram thunks his head down between his shoulders. He's shaking, King realizes after a second, cold claws of dismay sinking into his heart. "Ram," he says, hushed. Ram doesn't respond. "Ram, _sweetheart_ , we can stop." 

Ram shakes his head. "No. You want this."

"I want you to want it too," King reminds thickly. He pulls the pillow further to him, glancing over his shoulder to take in the way the rise and fall of Ram's chest as he breathes hitches. " _Ram_ ," he pleads. "If it's too much we should stop."

This isn't what he'd hope for. He just wanted his boyfriend to want him, not . . . Whatever this is. 

"I do want you," Ram whispers hoarsely, and King snaps his mouth shut as it occurs to him that he definitely just said that out loud. "I just don't want to hurt you."

"You won't," King says without even having to think about it. "Ram, you won't. You're a good alpha." And then, because he’s weak and not even remotely above playing dirty, King adds, "You're a good boy, Ram."

The reaction is instant, the stutter of Ram's hips sudden as he grinds into him. His breath staggers out across the back of King's neck, half a growl and half a gasp. One of these days, King thinks as he moans, he's going to give in to that impulse and buy this man a collar. "There you go. Good. Good boy, Ram. That's good."

" _P'King_."

"I know," King soothes. "It's okay though. You can fuck me. You can knot me if you want." He peers at Ram over his shoulder as he says it, watching as his boyfriend heaves in another unsteady breath, his eyes half-lidded and so, _so_ dark. It hits him then, as Ram stares at him, that this man is every bit the wolf he's inked into his skin.

And right now, King has made himself the rabbit.

"If it hurts I'll tell you," King swears. "If I don't like it _I'll tell you_. But you have to tell me, too."

Ram nods again, but this time it's firmer, steadier. "Alright," he chokes out. "Can you . . ."

The way he cuts himself off, breath catching around the question that stalls in his throat, would probably throw anyone else off. But King isn't anyone, and Ram is _his_. His cool boy. And he knows exactly what is being asked of him. 

The words come easily, the encouragement that falls from his lips such a well-worn mantra by now that it's almost unconscious. "Come on, my good boy. Fuck me."

He can't help but scrabble at the sheets when Ram starts moving, stars exploding behind his eyes as his boyfriend manages to hit that perfect angle on the first thrust, the second, the third, making him keen. _Fuck_ , he thinks, dizzy as tight heat coils in him quicker than expected, Ram has been holding back. Ram has been holding back for _years_. King falls to one elbow, forehead on the pillow as he gets a hand on himself. _Fuck_. Fuck, _fuck_ , **_fuck_**. He’s going to come already, thighs tensing has he gives himself a few quick and dirty strokes to spill across his own knuckles, crying out his partner’s name. But Ram isn't even close to done with him. King shivers through his release, and then the rippling aftershocks, muffling overstimulated sounds into the pillow. " _Ah_ , fuck. Good boy, Ram. Good boy. Keep- _hah_ \- going. I can take it."

And take it he does. The trust, he acknowledges now, is just as implicit as he thought it needed to be, if not moreso. Ram isn't even in rut and this is a lot. Every nerve in his body is afire, every breath dragged into his lungs burning around harsher and harsher moans. It takes him a little while to get half hard again, but even that almost feels like too much, especially after Ram lets him collapse, has him pinned down with his teeth to his neck again. His own cock is caught between his body and the bed, the friction he gets with every movement Ram makes inside him sending renewed sparks of ecstacy through his frame until he’s gaspingly close to another orgasm. 

Ram's growl has only deepened, the hands he has on King's hips to keep him where he wants him near bruising in their grip. King can't help but wonder what Ram was even getting out of their sex before now if this is what he's really like. Was it even pleasurable for him to top when he was holding so much back? 

He whimpers into the pillow when Ram starts to falter, getting his knees under him enough again to try and work himself back onto the increasingly insistent press of the knot. "Yeah. _Ye- ah_! Good boy- _hah!_ \- Ram. My good boy, just like that. You can- _mm_!- knot me just like tha- _ah!-_ t."

He doesn't miss it when Ram's bite turns from simply holding to actual _marking_. It's going to leave a fucking _mark_ , King realizes, hiccupping around a string of swears and praises, shuddering through another much too quick orgasm, his cock twitching between his stomach and the sheets. "Fuck, oh _fuck_! _Ram_! Good boy, that's good. Finish, I need-"

All the air in his body leaves him in a mewling rush when Ram knots him. His fingers flex in the sheets, the next inhale making spots dance in his vision. Ram grinds into him, pushing him up the mattress a bit, and the growl in his throat _echoes_ with how loud it is. He’s still trying to press in further, take King deeper, even though King can _feel_ that he's already started to come. His whole body is awash with fire, overwhelmed, his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

King is pretty sure he blacks out for a second, or maybe ten, because the next time he blinks Ram is nuzzling at his neck, whispering his name, and he can taste a flash of fear in the air. "P'King. _P'King_."

"Right here, cool boy," King slurs. "I'm alright."

Ram huffs out a sigh of relief, and when he repeats his earlier intonation its cadence is scolding. "P'King."

"I know," King apologizes. "But to be fair, I think you may have fucked my soul out of my body. That's a totally valid reason to pass out for a bit." The lack of response tells him exactly what Ram thinks about that joke. "I'm okay," he assures again. "Really. You didn't hurt me."

At least not in any way King didn't find _hot as fuck_. 

Ram winds his arms around his middle, and King sinks down into the mattress a little more beneath his weight. He can feel his boyfriend's eyes on him, and more importantly on the very real, definitely bruised bite mark he’s left on the back of his neck, but neither of them remarks on it further. King said he would tell Ram if he did something he didn't like. The fact that he didn't say anything either during or now, well after, should be telling enough. "Hmm," King hums, sensing that Ram is still staring at the mark. "You know what the worst part is?" He might be being just the tiniest bit mean, what with the way Ram tenses against him. So he doesn't wait for a reply before he says, "I'm not sure I'm into the part where the knot stops being hot and starts being uncomfortable, because I'm stuck here laying in my own jizz for another fifteen or more minutes."

It's fair, King decides, for Ram to nip his ear for that one. "You asked for this," he reminds, voice tinged with faint amusement.

Faux distaste on his tongue, King exclaims, "Alas! I've made my own bed, and now I must lay in it. And in my spunk."

Ram shakes his head over his spine, as close as King is going to get to earning a laugh. 

Quiet sets in again, and King is content to just relax for a bit (or as much as he can), purring softly as Ram noses at his neck, his jaw, his hands mapping out well-loved paths up and down King's ribs and waist. "Was it okay?" He asks eventually.

King nods. "Yeah. It was a lot, though," he confesses. The extent of the prep, the roughness of the sex itself, the knotting. None of this is really what he pictured. Thanks a bunch, apparently super fake porn. "I know I said I wanted to spend ruts with you, but I think we're going to have to work up to that." It comes out a tad more regretful, rueful, than he’d like, and he puffs on a frustrated whine when Ram responds by lacing his scenting with sympathetic kisses over his neck and shoulders. "Don't try and spoil me," he protests, mumbling into the curve of his arm, "I could have handled it better." 

"P'King, I didn't expect you to 'handle it better.'"

King glares at him over his shoulder, offended. "Why not?"

Ram hums on a consoling sort of note and shifts to nibble at the other side of his neck. "You’re a beta," he reminds quietly, as if King isn't aware of his own body somehow. But then he follows it with a much softer, sweeter, "The fact that you want to try and spend ruts with me at all is _amazing_." 

Oh. 

"But I don't expect or want you to jump into that blindly," Ram continues. "You're right, it is a lot. But it is something that will take time for you to be able to do for me. And we have time, don't we."

He says it like a certainty, but King can tell that despite his tone, the words are tentatively traced in the outlines of a question. "Yeah," he agrees, "We have time. We have tons of time. But," he points an accusing finger over his shoulder, immune to the puppy-eyed stare Ram immediately gives him in return, "if you think I'm totally not up for trying this again on, say, Tuesday, you're really underestimating me."

Ram just arches an eyebrow. 

"I mean it!" King protests. "Write it on the calendar, make an official reservation! Knotting Shenanigans Two: Electric Boogaloo!"

"Your reservation has been made," Ram responds, utterly monotone. "Now quit squirming and hold still." He punctuates it with a press of his teeth to King's neck again, harder than he's done it in a few minutes. It's not harsh, but the meaning of the motion is clear, firm, and King wonders if the warning bells going off in his brain to do as he's told are instinct, too.

"Is this part of it?" He asks, a little breathless as Ram's hips stutter just a little, as if King needed to be reminded that they’re still tied. It's uncomfortable, but not in any way that actually hurts. And with the accompaniment of Ram's teeth on his throat, the pattern of heavy, claiming bites that send shivers through his spine, it's almost pleasurable, in a super weird sort of way. Ram's response isn't verbal, rather a another sharp, obviously scolding bite to the underside of King's jaw. It's answer enough and then some, and King murmurs a swift apology before relaxing under the attention. 

Yeah, he decides as he listens to Ram purr, tilts his head to the side to give him more access, this was pretty much exactly what he wanted.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll probably write some actual rut stuff for these two, but it’s not even remotely a priority with these shorts. Eventually though. Maybe. 
> 
> Comments are always appreciated! :3c


	6. Agony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben runs down the driveway when they pull up, breathless. At twenty he's filled out, tall in stature and broad in the shoulders. His hair is a mess, Bohn notes, as if that matters, and he’s wearing a school-branded apron as though he dashed straight out of class, flour dusting the tip of his nose. Bohn fiddles with the orange and white bottle in his hands as Ben reaches the car. 
> 
> "Dad," he starts, and Bohn’s heart wrenches. 
> 
> Frong is quiet in the driver's seat, gaze fixed ahead of him. Bohn wonders what he told Ben on the phone, but he figures it doesn't matter now. So long as neither of them have said anything to Duen.
> 
> That's for him to do, in the safety and privacy and comfort of their own home, where no one but those closest to them will have to hear Duen fall apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the updated tags if you have pregnancy related triggers and/or traumas.

"Aren't you worried you'll throw up?" Frong asks.

Bohn shakes his head, tapping his spoon on the side of the bowl as he waits for his food to cool enough to eat. "Nah," he says, "My morning sickness has been pretty low all week, actually. Besides," he adds, pointing at his companion with the utensil still in hand, "even if it wasn't, this is my fourth pregnancy. I think I know my own body well enough by now."

Frong gives him a rather dubious stare, but doesn't try and lecture him further. Which is good, because Bohn has been looking forward to eating kua kling for days now, and he _will_ fight anyone who tries to stop him. 

As per usual when he's expecting, Bohn has somewhat reluctantly shifted his and Frong's bi-weekly coffee dates to bi-weekly lunch dates. Food is great and all, but he really does prefer to eat his husband’s home cooking. Alas, caffeine is off limits right now. So he makes do. "Spicy baby," he sing-songs as he finally digs into his meal, "come to daddy."

" _Please_ don't call yourself that," Frong sighs. 

"I'll call myself whatever I like," Bohn retorts, sticking his tongue out at him before he proceeds to shovel his kua kling into his mouth.

It's not Duen's home cooking, but he's willing to give it three stars.

He cuts that down to two stars though when, an hour later, he finds himself clutching the rim of a public restroom toilet heaving his guts out. "You ever get tired of being right?" He asks when Frong stops rubbing his back to give him a semi-sympathetic, mostly condescending pat. 

"No," Frong deadpans. 

Bohn grimaces but decides that a rueful glare is more effective than any retort he can come up with while his mind is primarily occupied with _not_ barfing. 

"Do you need me to take you home?" Frong asks after a few more moments. He's shifted from rubbing his back to drawing lazy shapes across it with the tip of his finger. Bohn’s fairly certain he's outlined a dick shape at least twice, but when he’d made his accusations Frong had just put a flabbergasted hand to his heart and blinked at him, as if horrified Bohn would even suggest he would do such a thing.

"No," Bohn says. He definitely considers it, but he's been antsy to be out of the house for the past few days, and he’s loathe to give up the opportunity so easily just because his stomach hates him right now. "Just give me a couple minutes," he sighs. "I still want to go see that movie, I just have to get my shit together a little first."

Frong gives him an oddly considering look, a tiny frown marring his features and a slight furrow in his brow. "Are you _sure_ you're okay?"

Bohn blinks. "Yeah. Dude, it's just morning sickness. I'll live. This is, what, like the dozenth time you've had to babysit me while I hurl my guts out? It's fine." Still, Frong lingers. His nostrils flare, just a little, and Bohn stares as he notices it. _Nervous_ , he thinks, a little uneasy himself now. Why is he nervous? "Are _you_ okay?" He hedges.

Frong's frown hasn't faded, and when Bohn questions him it only seems to deepen. "I . . . Don’t know. Something just feels off," he admits after a second, the words uncharacteristically hushed. 

Well then, Bohn has no idea what the fuck to make of that. He settles on waving a flippant hand at him. "If we're both fine, I don't know what we're still doing in the bathroom. Shoo, let me finish up my business in peace."

Frong rolls his eyes, but he goes more or less without protest. "We wouldn't even be in the bathroom if you had listened to me and not eaten that stuff."

"You’re right," Bohn concedes, the sarcasm practically dripping off his tongue. "What a fool I am, not listening to the glorious, all knowing P'Frong! Now get out."

He gets another eye roll for it, but with after a second shooing motion Frong leaves. Which is really for the best, because that fucking kua kling gave him the gut cramps, and no one, not even his former rivals and enemies, should be subjected to the effects of Bohn’s digestion.

They've already missed the first showing of the film they wanted to see, but Bohn figures if they spend a half hour dicking around in the mall for awhile they can catch the next one and still be home in time for Duen not to fret too much. He's in his height of his worry stage right now, Bohn thinks fondly as he scans the movie times on his phone, toes tapping on the tile floor of the bathroom. At nine weeks that's expected though, and since this is his third go-round of this with Duen, he's used to it. Hell, most of the time he even likes it. Duen’s possessive overprotectiveness while he's pregnant is more of a delight than an annoyance, especially when it closes most evenings with a very languid, very indulgent fuck. He shoots Duen a text while he's thinking of it, a brief warning that he plans on being a little later than originally intended. Bohn’s pretty sure he won't mind, it's one of his rare weekend days off, so he'll be so busy with Bee and Day he probably won't even notice the text for a half hour or so.

Duen had mentioned something this morning about possibly taking the kids to the library, he remembers absently as he finishes up. Day's really into electricity this month, and their own book collection is woefully lacking in materials for electricity based bedtime stories. He's thinking of that, just a series of distant, dull thoughts, all mildly mulled with an undercurrent of discomfort. Two stars, he thinks, maybe even one. Kua kling, or any food for that matter, should be good on both ends, not just one. 

Muttering to himself about it, concerned now that he'll have to take a mid-movie bathroom break too, he stands to tug his pants back on only to freeze.

Blood.

Just a drip of it, smudged to the side in the fabric of his boxer briefs. Bohn whirls, breath already catching in sharp, panicked inhales as he turns to check the bowl of the toilet.

 _Blood_. There's-

"Frong," he whispers, hoarse and wavering as true, unbridled terror claws through his lungs. _No no no no no_. "Frong. Frong! FRONG!"

The door to the bathroom bangs back open. "For fuck’s sake, Bohn," Frong snaps. "The entire restaurant doesn't need to know my name, you can just-"

"Frong," Bohn repeats, choking on the single syllable. "Frong, I-" He can smell it now, Bohn thinks, his head spinning as it really, _really_ _and truly_ hits him. There's a thin line of it running down the inside of his thigh, a tiny speckle finding a path over his skin to stain cotton. " _Frong_." He doesn't know what else to say, agony stilling everything else but the comfort of a name before it can leave his tongue. 

Frong's hands are on his shoulders, his grip shaking, and Bohn finally pulls his gaze away from the scarlet swimming in the toilet bowl to see that his eyes are as wide as saucers. He's saying something, Bohn registers, but everything is muffled under the ringing in his ears, and it takes him a moment to process. 

"-an ambulance." Frong says quickly. And Bohn notes that he’s let go with one hand to fumble for his phone. "-don't worry, let's just stay calm. I'll call Duen and-"

"No." 

The words finally come, clipped and hitching, and Bohn gathers himself together enough to furiously shake his head. "Don't call him. _Don't_."

Frong stares at him, open-mouthed. "Bohn-"

" _Don't_ ," Bohn repeats fiercely. "You _can't_."

There's an image in his head, a now almost decade old memory tinted in fond and favored halcyon golds, of Duen tracing quiet shapes over his abdomen while they lay in bed, his voice so hushed as he'd admitted, " _It scares the hell out of me, and if something happens, it’ll feel like my fault. I’ll never not wonder if I could have done something more, could have been a better alpha_."

"Frong," Bohn pleads, tears welling hot and fast in his eyes. "You _can't_."

It'll kill him. If Duen finds out they've lost the baby over a phone call, it'll _kill him_. 

~~~***~~~

Frong doesn't let go of him the entire time. Whether it's in the simplicity of holding his hand or a full-on embrace, he's there. So when the doctor comes back, paperwork clutched to her chest, Bohn doesn't have to look at her to hear the conclusion he already knows, shallow breaths staggered out as he buries his face in the crook of Frong's neck. What a numb, empty feeling, he acknowledges, a grief dulled by his own instincts. She explains that, too, careful in her wording as she tells him that'll be a few weeks to a month until it really hits him. He doesn't need confirmation to know that it won't be like that for Duen though.

The alpha's protective instincts are highest during the first trimester for this exact reason. His anguish will be immediate, and right now, far above the actual loss, Bohn is terrified it will destroy him. He barely even registers that the doctor is outlining the steps from there, drawn back to the present when Frong adjusts his hold on him to repeat what she's said closer to his ear. It's only then that Bohn realizes he's not actually sitting, that he's just slumped against Frong's front, held up as if he is upright by the other man's arms under his own.

"-if you choose to take the pills, I have a packet with information on how the next week will look for you," the doctor is saying. "It's quicker and a little safer than just letting the miscarriage finish naturally, but it will hurt."

It already hurts, Bohn thinks bleakly. "I'll take the pills," he manages.

Frong accepts the prescription for him, folding it carefully into a pocket. The doctor says a few more things that don't really register, mostly stuff about how it will take awhile for the pregnancy hormones to fade, how if he tries to take a test it will likely show up positive for another week or more even though . . .

"Do you want me to call Ben?" Frong whispers after awhile. Bohn blinks, lifting his head enough to notice the doctor has left, the room now void of anyone but themselves. "Or do you want me to take the kids for a bit? She said that . . . That Duen will probably need time. I don't know if you want . . ."

He's right, Bohn thinks. Day is barely four, and Bee almost ten, too young to deal with any of this. But he's sure them not being in the house will only make it harder on Duen. "Call Ben." As loathe as Bohn is to pull him out of university, he can't think of anything else. And having Ben home for a bit is for the best, both as a comfort to his parents, and more importantly, to his siblings. 

Bohn doesn't remember much, if anything of the ride home, other than his phone ringing. He stares at the contact picture on the screen every time it does, eyes unfocused as the image of Duen laughing in the kitchen, cake batter on his face and a whisk in hand, appears over and over again, unanswered. 

Ben runs down the driveway when they pull up, breathless. At twenty he's filled out, tall in stature and broad in the shoulders. His hair is a mess, Bohn notes, as if that matters, and he’s wearing a school-branded apron as though he dashed straight out of class, flour dusting the tip of his nose. Bohn fiddles with the orange and white bottle in his hands as Ben reaches the car.

" _Dad_ ," he starts, and Bohn’s heart wrenches. 

Frong is quiet in the driver's seat, gaze fixed ahead of him. Bohn wonders what he told Ben on the phone, but he figures it doesn't matter now. So long as neither of them have said anything to Duen.

That's for him to do, in the safety and privacy and comfort of their own home, where no one but those closest to them will have to hear Duen fall apart. 

"Ben," Bohn says before he can continue. He doesn't want any platitudes right now, any solaces. He just wants this day to be over with. " _Luuk_ ," he rephrases, not missing how Ben sucks in a too-knowing, tellingly wet breath. "Can you take Bee and Day to Bee's room?" It used to be his, but everything got shifted around last month in preparation for . . .

Bohn swallows, teeth digging into the inside of his lower lip until he tastes a hint of copper on his tongue. 

Ben stares at him for a long second, hands white knuckled on the window frame of the car before he nods. "Y-yeah. I can do that. Dad, I-"

"Please don't," Bohn whispers. Muted mourning or not, he won't be able to bear it if Ben tries to give him any sort of condolences. Everything feels far away still, unreal. He wants it to stay that way for just a little while longer. 

Lingering for only a moment more, Ben finally turns away and heads back towards the house. Bohn waits until the door closes behind him to speak again. 

"Frong," he says as steadily as he can. "Thank you."

Frong's fingers flex where they’re locked around the steering wheel, but he doesn't respond. His eyes are red, Bohn notices now, puffy, and when he turns to look at him he spots the sheen of tear tracks on his cheeks, too. "I love you, you know that, right?" 

Bohn has no idea what to say to that. Even on any other day he'd probably still be at a loss. 

"We're _family_ ," Frong continues, and every breath he takes to state it wavers. "So you have to promise to call me if you need anything, anything at all. Okay?"

"Okay," Bohn echoes, but the words sound hollow even to his own ears.

He gathers his things, the pill bottle, the pack of sanitary pads still in the grocery sack, and hides them away in the shoulder bag he'd brought with him when he’d left that morning. Frong pulls out of the drive and away after Bohn assures him he'll call (he won't), and he waits till he's turned the corner off their street before he makes his way up to the house. His steps are slow, every one dragging as if weighed down. The earth is heavy on his back, burdened with the humanity Bohn suddenly finds himself disconnected from. 

Duen knows the second he steps inside. Of course he does. There's no way he can't smell the blood. He's waiting for Bohn in the foyer, frozen mid-pace, and Bohn watches with cold agony as the knowledge spreads across his face. It's cruel in its slowness, the flare of Duen’s nostrils, the widening of his eyes, the tremble in his hands as he reaches for him. " _No_ ," he whispers, the note of it instantly raw. "No. No, no, no, no, _no,_ **_no_**. Bohn, no, _please_ -"

Bohn doesn't reply. What is there to even reply to? Duen's hands find him, fingers shaking as they trace down from his shoulders to his ribs, stalling over Bohn’s heart before skimming further, settling. He'd set those same hands there just that morning, Bohn recalls, teasing praises whispered in his ear, excitement for something that is no longer there. "I'm sorry," Bohn finally says, choking on it as tears sting his eyes.

Duen just stares at him. His chest heaves with each inhale, exhale, mouth forming a now silent, " _No_."

And then he breaks.

Bohn has never heard the sound Duen makes as he slips to his knees right there in the foyer of their home. It's pure anguish, unfiltered, unbidden, loud enough to echo between the walls and the hardwood. The only way he can really describe it is a howl. 

Duen’s hands are still on his stomach, splayed out as if searching, seeking some sign of what had not yet even been big enough to feel. His grief has already permeated the air, his agony palpable even without the horrible, audible proof of it. Bohn drops his bag to the floor and sinks down with him, lets Duen scramble to gather him close. He can feel every thundering beat of his heart once they're pressed together, is aware of each shuddering breath Duen takes and then lets go of, somehow meeting the air in one long, unbroken cry.

Duen howls, and Bohn wonders if the world could stop spinning, just for a minute, to give them time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made sure to have a story with Del in it start off this series of shorts for a very specific reason, and this is it. I wanted to make sure that going into this short, everyone would already be aware that there's an eventual happy ending. Even if it isn't now. 
> 
> There will be quite a bit more of the shorts on the aftermath of this, and the eventuality of Del, but I'm going to space them out between happier ones FOR OBVIOUS REASONS.
> 
> Anyways. Sorry but not really sorry since I've had this planned for months and foreshadowed it in Tense: Past, Future, Present Perfect.


	7. Baby Shoes, Thrice Worn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben is impressed, truly, for all of ten seconds before Day gives an unhappy little wiggle in his arms and it sinks in that he’s just been left alone to feed a baby he can barely hold on to without freaking out.
> 
> Oh god.
> 
> "Okay. Cool. Cool cool cool cool cool. I've definitely got this."
> 
> He definitely does not got this.

"Ben. Ben, wake up. I really need your help right now."

Sometimes, Ben wonders if there are traits that can pass over without biological connection, because he’s pretty sure his phorh shakes him for a solid minute, maybe even two, before his brain even starts to try and respond. "Wussuh?" He slurs, bleary eyed as he blinks up at his phorh's relieved face.

"Hey," Phorh whispers. "Sorry. I know it's the middle of the night." It is. It definitely is. "But could you step up for a bit and help your dad out?"

Ben rubs the heel of his hand over his eyes, barely suppressing a yawn behind pursed lips. "Why? Is he okay?"

His phorh nods, "He's fine. He's going to be upset later, though, when he realizes I'm gone. I wouldn’t ask for your help if it wasn't an emergency."

Sitting up straighter, Ben whispers, "An emergency?"

Phorh sighs, "Sunny has the flu. P'Boss is panicking, and they need a housecall. But P'Thara picked up an ER shift at the hospital tonight, so he can't make it. I'll try and be back by morning, but your dad is still . . ." He falters, and Ben watches as he clearly weighs what he can and can't tell him. It’s not like he doesn't know, though. He lives in this house, too. "Your dad is still really, really protective over Day," Phorh says carefully. "He hasn't left the nursery yet for anything other than necessity. I want you to help him out if he needs it tonight."

"Okay."

"Good." His phorh stands up from where he'd been sitting on the side of the bed, snagging him by the back of the neck to plant a kiss to Ben’s forehead regardless of protest. "Thank you. I'll call you if I think I need to stay later. I'm just going to try and get Sun's fever down and write up a prescription for them."

He's dashing out of the room almost the second he stops talking, his coat and housecall kit grabbed from where they were sitting on Ben’s bedroom floor. Ben watches him go, yawning into his palm before he glances at his phone for the time.

Oh. Cool. 

Ben strongly considers just flopping back over and going to sleep again in his own bed, but preemptive guilt claws at him before he even tries. Phorh is right, his dad has been really protective of Day, the least he could do would be to help out. Though, Ben thinks through persistent sleep haze, he's not sure what comfort his presence specifically will bring. Sure, he's _technically_ an alpha now, but he's very aware that the majority of the things his phorh does as an alpha are ones he either doesn't quite yet have the instincts for yet, or just simply doesn't know how to.

Fuck, he realizes, the formula. His phorh has been preparing the formula _the whole time_. 

He leaps out of bed, wide awake suddenly as he races out into the hall in hopes of catching him before he leaves, but all he manages to see are the taillights of his motorcycle halfway down the road already.

God. Damnit.

Ben fixes his gaze on the ceiling, stealing himself for what has now turned from a tiredly agreed upon favor to a terrifying task. He's not even sure what help he's going to be considering that the baby has been inconsolable anytime his dad or Phorh had tried to pass him off to anyone. What use is he when he hasn't even even held his brother yet? Not that he's tried. He'd witnessed the total panic that had ensued when his uncle Boss and his dad got into a scuffle after Phorh tried to separate him from the baby long enough to get him cleaned up. Day had shrieked like he was being murdered the second uncle Boss tried to touch him, and Dad had launched himself right out of Phorh's grip to tackle the beta to the other side of the room. It wasn’t a harsh fight, the task almost immediately abandoned because Day had been absolutely wailing, and his dad's instinct-addled priority was taking care of him, not getting into snarling, hissing scuffles. Still though, it was more than enough for his Phorh to lay out a few new, hopefully temporary ground rules. 

" _No one but Bohn and I in the nursery for a bit_ ," he'd ordered. " _Something has him really riled, and I don't want anyone getting hurt_."

He hasn't exactly rescinded that command, but Ben figures he can't help if he has to just sit outside the nursery until dawn. There’s a memory ingrained in his mind though, stark and bright despite the circumstances surrounding it, of his dad sheltering him in that very room months still before Bee was even born. Dad won’t hurt him, he thinks, but Ben has his doubts about whether or not he’ll be anything other than a nuisance to him. Or worse, a hindrance. Just because his dad won’t attack him doesn’t mean he’s not a threat to the baby; a baby he has no idea what to do with, how to hold, let alone anything else his phorh probably does. 

It’s with that in mind that he eases the door to the nursery open _slowly_. He’s met by the immediate glint of the lights from the hallway reflecting off of a pair of eyes in the darkness beyond, and the hair on the back of his neck stands up. “Uh,” he squeaks out, “hey, dad.”

He’s not too surprised when his dad doesn’t respond, at least not verbally. He’s curled around Day the same way Ben’s pretty sure he has been all week since the baby was born, the sleeping infant tucked into the space between his legs and arms, practically cocooned in the safety of his body encircling him. To his relief though, after a quiet moment of regard, his dad inclines his head for him to come in.

Ben pulls the door most of the way closed again behind him, keeping it cracked so that he’ll be able to hear Bee better if she wakes up, too. “Phorh said Sunny is sick,” he explains softly. “Is . . . Is it okay if I stay in here with you until he comes back?”

Honestly, he almost wants his dad to say no. But he can read a tenseness in the air he hadn’t been able to when Bee was that small, can actually smell his dad’s unease. His brain spins as he registers it, dragging up old biology lessons he’d rather not care to recall at all. How long does it take for an omega to recover from labor, again? A week seems like both a good amount of time, and definitely not long enough. Fuck, he thinks, his phorh shouldn’t have left. Even if the age they live in doesn’t call for it as a necessity anymore, it’s obvious to him that his dad is extremely unsettled by the fact that his mate isn't here. 

The omega protects the baby. The alpha protects the omega.

Oh god, Ben realizes with dawning horror, his phorh just left him in charge as the household alpha.

His dad clearly doesn’t see it that way though, for which Ben is only mildly relieved. His trepidation is still heavy in the air, and when Ben moves to check the latches on the windows that overlook the yard, a hand braced on the seat beneath the glass, he can feel his eyes on him. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” he admits quietly, fixated now on checking, rechecking, before he paces back to the nest to sit gingerly on the edge of it. His dad watches, but the only noise that comes from him is a tentative purr, an even quieter sigh. “Is . . .” Ben swallows, but curiosity is getting the better of him. It wasn’t like this with Bee, he knows, he was old enough to remember that much. “Is something the matter with Day?”

The quick, suddenly focused narrowing of his dad’s eyes tell him he misspoke, and Ben tenses under the scrutiny. “No,” comes the response, hoarse with disuse but no less fierce. “He just doesn’t like to be held by anyone other than family." To Ben’s utter alarm, for some reason his dad decides to punctuate his meaning with an _example_ , because before he can even blink he’s sat up, scooped Day out of where he’d been pillowed against his side, and deposited him right into Ben’s arms. Ben barely manages to bite back a yelp of alarm, teeth digging into his lower lip as his dad carefully adjusts his grip, makes sure Day’s head is tucked into the crook of his elbow and properly supported, and then _gets up to leave_.

“Where are you going?!” Ben whisper-yells after him.

“Bathroom,” Dad mumbles.

And then he’s gone. The glow of the lights in the hall are all Ben has to see by, and he stares down in helpless horror as Day snuffles in his little baby dreams, wiggles to get more comfortable in his arms, but thankfully doesn’t wake. Ben slumps as soon as he seems settled, puffing out a sigh through his nose that’s much too early, because he nearly flies out of his skin when a voice whispers, “I wanna hold the baby too!”

Bee is _centimeters_ from his face, peering at Day with one sleepy hand rubbing at her eyes, and Ben doesn’t quite manage to repress the terrified noise that escapes him.

It all goes to shit in less than six seconds. 

One moment, Day is still peacefully dozing in his grip, and the next his eyes are open, his mouth not far behind, and he _wails_.

“Oh,” Bee says, disappointed. “You broke him.”

Sheer, unadulterated panic prickles through him. “I did not!” Ben hisses. “He’s fine! I-” He falters. You can’t just _break_ a baby like that, right? Right!? 

“Five minutes.” This time, when his dad speaks, it’s a respite. He’s still gravely, clearly exhausted, but his posture when he stalks back into the room is the opposite. “I just want five minutes to pee. Or shower.” He sits down heavily across from them, lifting one obliging, if tired, arm when Bee dives for him to climb into his lap. She protests a little when he shifts her to his side instead, but tucks up against him regardless. “When did Duen say he was coming home?”

Ben holds Day a little closer regardless of his upset sobs. “Uh, in the morning. I’m . . . I’m supposed to be helping . . .” And he’s doing a really bang-up job of it so far, he thinks bitterly as his dad wordlessly takes the baby back from him. 

“Daylily,” Dad murmurs as soon as he has him, nuzzling at the baby’s squirming form, “cuddly boy, come on. It’s like two in the morning. Can’t you let your old dad rest a little? Till phorh comes home?”

Apparently, the answer is no, because Day just hiccups around another, much too unhappy sob.

“He’s broken,” Bee mutters, and Ben inhales sharply as his dad’s eyes turn towards her slowly, icily. 

“Bee,” Dad says stiffly. “If you ever say that again, you’re grounded for a week.”

Bee considers this in the dark shadows around them before responding, “What’s grounded?”

“No dessert."

Bee gasps.

“No tablet. No Hot Wheels. No dinosaurs. One week,” their dad reiterates. “You are not allowed to call _anyone_ broken. Got it?” It’s probably, no, _definitely_ the most words he’s spoken since Day was born, and it shows with how much it’s obviously wearing on him, the shift Ben can see in his gaze as he struggles to grasp every syllable. Phorh was right, he’s still _deep_ in his postpartum protective mode. Guilt that he’s even having to do this much claws at Ben’s ribs.

“Bee, Day is just a baby,” Ben fills in when his dad finally stumbles into silence. “Babies cry. He’s not . . . He’s probably just hungry,” he decides, only realizing that he’s really set himself up as soon as the statement leaves his mouth.

Phorh prepares the formula. The _alpha_. Fuck.

“I can . . .” Ben hedges, really, desperately hoping his dad will assure him that he doesn’t need to, but he’s dismayed to see that he’s clearly and quickly slipping. Dad is murmuring things too soft to Day for Ben or Bee to hear, nuzzling at him as he settles onto his stomach in the nest, the baby tucked defensively between his arms on the mattress, shielded from the world while he cries. Right. Okay. So Google exists, Ben decides.

“Bee, want to come help me?” he asks, eager now to get her back to bed, too, before she does in fact end up grounded for sheer and inescapable childish ignorance. To his relief, Bee seems keen, and jumps to her feet to follow him out into the kitchen.

Luckily, Ben finds, the formula box has some pretty brainlessly simple instructions on the back. He double checks it with an internet search though, pulling up a YouTube video of someone testing the temperature of the bottle on the inside of their wrist while he heats the water on the stovetop. 

“Am I grounded?” Bee mumbles from where Ben has set her on the counter to watch. 

“No, bumble-Bee. Dad’s just protective of Day right now, and you accidentally made him upset.”

“What’s ‘protective?’”

Ben shuts the water off once it boils, moving it to a back burner to cool for a minute. “Protective’ means that he’s trying to keep the baby safe. And I think . . .” He hesitates, because it is different, and he has noticed, but he’s not sure how to explain it to a five year old. “I think Day might need a little extra protecting,” he tries. “He only likes us, right now, the people who smell like him. And that’s fine, but Dad . . . Dad loves Day _a lot_ , so when Day is upset, so is he. Does that make sense?”

Bee stares at him, considering, and then shakes her head. “He’s loud,” she huffs. "I don't like it."

Oh. _Ooooooohhhhh_.

Alright. Nice. Now _this_ is something Ben can deal with. “Are you hungry too?” he hedges, stifling a smile when Bee levels him with a rather telling side-eye. He lifts a brow at her before pouring the water into a bottle and sticking it in the fridge to cool off for a bit. “You know, I think there’s a few pieces of cake left over from the one I made a few days ago, if you want a slice.”

Bee, as always, is easily won over, and he sets her up with a small square of cake at the table. Five is a pretty prime age to get jealous over a baby, Ben figures. And his dad probably knows that too. Ben himself had been just a tad too old for that when Bee was born, more fascinated by the spectacle of a sibling than envious of the attention she got. Bee, however, has had the crowning glory of being the youngest for her entire life thus far. Ben supposes he shouldn’t be too surprised that her distaste for losing the position is manifesting as vitriol she doesn’t know carries dual meaning. “You can protect Day too, you know.” That statement doesn’t earn a response, at least not one spoken aloud, but Bee does give him another haughty stare over top of her cake. “Day could probably use a big sister.”

“Don’t wanna,” Bee mutters. “He cries too much.”

“I am actually pretty positive you cried more,” Ben says after a pause to mull it over. Now that he is really thinking about it, Day is almost shockingly quiet most of the time. Really, his outbursts are very focused. He cries when he actually needs something, and he cries hardest when he doesn’t like the situation he’s placed in, such as being held by non-family, or baths, or the very few times someone has attempted to leave him alone for even a second. Huh.

He can’t dwell on it too much, though, because as soon as he points out that Bee was, in fact, a rather notorious shriek-cryer, moisture wells up in her eyes, “I did not.”

Once again, Ben questions his phorh’s placement of trust. “Bee . . .” He warns. But it’s too late, and Bee bursts into tears.

Mark that down as fuckup number whatever the hell he’s on, Ben thinks. 

Five years old or not, her sobs have his dad poking his head out of the nursery in a heartbeat, a frown on his face and Day, also still sniffling, clinging to his shoulder. “I’ve got it,” Ben assures, earning a look that conveys steady, if slightly apprehensive trust, before his dad ducks away into the safety of the dark room again.

Bee hiccups around her own distress when Ben picks her up from her chair, cake only half eaten, and carries her back to her room. Maybe he should have anticipated that dessert wasn’t going to work as a cure-all this time, what with it being such an ass-crack time of day and Bee being _five_ , but it’s too late to try and curb the breakdown now that it’s already begun.

Unfortunately, she has clearly been holding back her tears for awhile, because it takes him almost ten minutes to soothe her. He’s still not good at the purring thing, the rumble of it just as finicky in level as his voice at sixteen, but after awhile he manages enough that Bee goes from inhaling wetly against his neck to just breathing unevenly. “You used to cry about nothing,” Ben says once she’s settled enough for him to get a word in. “Dad called it your ‘pissed at existing’ cry. Apparently I did it too, when I was a baby.”

“I’m not a baby,” Bee says, hilariously vehement for her size. Ben purses his lips to keep from laughing.

“No,” he agrees, “not anymore. But Day _is_ a baby. And he could use a big sister who isn’t. Because he’s little, and he does cry, and he needs people bigger than him to look after him.”

“Protective.” She sounds the word out slowly as she says it, one syllable at a time. “Like dad.”

“Yeah,” Ben agrees. “So we can’t get upset with him when he cries, because we should be protective, too. Okay?”

He’s pretty sure a lot, if not maybe all, of what he’s saying is still going over Bee’s head. But she’s quiet for a moment anyways, the settled silence broken only when she mumbles a rather sleepy, “Kay.”

Well, Ben decides, some agreement is better than none, even if he highly doubts she’ll remember any of this conversation come morning.

There about half a dozen things Phorh would do now that Ben makes the executive decision not to. Like getting Bee to brush her teeth before she falls asleep, or putting away the half-eaten cake slice in a tupperware container rather than tossing it into the trash under the sink. By the time he fishes the bottle of now much cooler than expected water out of the fridge, Ben reluctantly finds himself heating it back up all over again before he measures out the powdered formula for it.

Day is quiet when he finally brings the bottle in, lulled into a half-sleep where Dad is still whispering and nuzzling at him in the nest. “Brought the bottle,” Ben says, really only semi proud. “Also an omelette. I remember phorh saying it’s good on upset stomachs, and I wasn’t sure what you were up for eating yet, so-”

Somehow, his explanation of his mediocre offerings gets him an armful of wiggly baby again, the plate traded out for his brother in his grip. Ben almost fucking _drops him_ , but if his dad notices, he doesn’t comment, practically wolfing down his food.

“You’re a lifesaver,” he praises thickly while Ben sinks down to sit in the nest as gingerly as he can manage with both baby and bottle still in hand. “If I show you how to feed him, think you can keep him happy while I catch a catnap?”

“Uh,” Ben responds, super helpfully.

The plate, now empty, is set aside as his dad adjusts the hold he has on Day once again, and then moves the bottle from the side not currently cradling his brother’s head at his elbow. “You want to make sure there’s no air getting into the nipple of the bottle. If he swallows too much air, he’ll get gassy, and then he’ll probably burp up half of what you feed him.” Once more, Ben can actually see how much his dad is struggling with the words. Instincts, he thinks, that and really, really noticable exhaustion. “He’ll burp anyways though, but babies . . .” He falters, hard, blinking and shaking his head before he continues, “Nevermind. Don’t worry about burping him. Just . . . Fifteen minutes, okay? Lemme nap for fifteen minutes and I’ll do it. You’re sixteen, don’t even worry about it.”

And then he promptly flops back into the plushest looking part of the nest, and passes right the fuck out.

Ben is impressed, truly, for all of ten seconds before Day gives an unhappy little wiggle in his arms and it sinks in that he’s just been left alone to feed a baby he can barely hold on to without freaking out.

Oh god.

"Okay. Cool. Cool cool cool cool cool. I've definitely got this."

He definitely does not got this.

Well at least Day isn't crying, this time. Which more or less proves the earlier hypothesis about him being perfectly fine being held by family. He is, however, staring up at him with a very grumpy little expression for someone who has only existed on the planet for a handful of days. Right, okay. He can do this, Ben thinks as he tilts the bottle for him. How hard can it be?

Very, actually. Day is, to his dismay, a fussy eater. He’s in the habit of taking a few gulps, than twisting his head away, the movement more than enough for the bottle nipple to drip formula onto his pastel blue onesie, and by the time he’s actually finished Ben’s fairly sure that half of it has ended up on his clothes. And since Day is a human being, he’s pretty immediately unhappy with the feeling of sticky, wet cloth touching his skin. Ben’s quick to set the bottle aside as soon as he figures out the reason for the renewed squirming, frantically glancing around the moonlit room for the box of baby things he knows is tucked away somewhere.

It’s on the other side of his dad’s curled up, sleeping form, and Ben gingerly reaches over him to fish a clean onesie out of the box, relieved that the man doesn’t even so much as change his deep, even breathing when he does so. Geeze, he’s really out, Ben realizes. He’s glad for it for a solid minute before he discovers that Day is not having any of his shit.

He doesn’t cry, but he does make his displeasure known in a lot of other ways. The wiggling especially, and the way he _clings_ when Ben tries to set him down to take the damp onesie off of him. “Day,” he whines when tiny, shockingly sharp fingers and nails snag at the collar of his shirt. “You can’t wear wet clothes. You’ll get sick.” Actually, he’s pretty sure that’s not true. But cartoons always make it seem like it is, and Ben is _not_ going to take that chance. “Just let me put you down for a minute, and I promise I’ll pick you right back up again.”

Alas, unsurprisingly Day doesn’t have the language comprehension to take him at his word, and after a few more failed attempts at trying to untangle the absolute death grip he’s managed to get on his shirt, Ben gives up. It's a lot more work than he’d like, but after a bit of fumbling and some quiet swearing, he ends up being able to unbutton the bottom of the onesie and pull it off of the infant without actually dislodging him much. Getting the new one on, however, is a nightmare, as Day only clings more while he has skin bared. Ben gives up on trying to button it with just one hand though, and leaves it open at the bottom with a defeated sigh.

This sucks. He should probably just wake his dad up now, he thinks a tad miserably. He tried, that’s what counts, right? He’d tried, and besides, his dad had pretty staunchly reminded him that he’s just sixteen, and not to . . .

To . . .

Ben blinks. 

Oh. 

The hand he has cupped around the back of Day’s tiny head, thumb stroking absently at thin brown baby curls, stills.

He’s sixteen. But . . . His dad . . .

“I said I hated him, once,” he whispers. It’s said to no one, and everyone. To Day, to the quiet rise and fall of his dad’s chest as he sleeps, to the nursery the likes of which he never had himself.

For most people, Ben thinks, revelations like this probably sink in slowly. They roll in like the tide, one windswept wave at a time. But for him it’s a hurricane, a distant storm he sort of always knew of, but never really dwelled on.

“ _You’re sixteen, don’t even worry about it_ ,” his dad had said, as if he hadn’t been _fourteen_.

Ben sits there in the shadow-lined nursery, frozen as it hits him, cold as it sinks into his every atom. He sits there in the dark, now clinging to his baby brother just as tightly as he’s clinging onto him in turn, muted horror in every spiking thrum of his heart. His dad had been _younger_ than he is _right now_ , holding on to a baby that wasn’t a sibling, but one he’d given birth to.

And, technically, Ben remembers now, he hadn’t even done that.

There’s a scar. He’s seen it, once or twice, but only fairly recently. He thinks, no, he’s _sure_ it’s usually hidden on purpose. Ben hadn’t even really been born, not the way he should have been. Because his dad had been _fourteen_ , and not even his body had really been ready.

His dad had been fourteen, probably at some point sitting up in the dark, alone, with an unhappy baby, all his, just like this.

Ben doesn’t even realize he’s started crying until there’s a broad hand on his cheek, a murmuring kiss pressed near his ear, a familiar scent and sight and sound that makes him remember where he is. 

“ _Luuk_ ,” his dad purrs, nuzzling their cheeks together for another heartbeat before he pulls away again. “I told you to wake me.”

He takes Day back so easily, a quiet, calm and patient moment where he unwinds his tiny hands from Ben’s shirt and hefts his barely-there weight into his own arms instead. Day curls into him instantly, half-asleep and so, so small that Ben finds himself staring as if it’s the first time he’s seeing him. He’d been even smaller than that, he remembers, three weeks early. How had he held him, Ben wonders, how had he managed? There’s a bedside bassinet on the floor, the same one he knows he, too, once lay in. Wasn’t it originally bought because his dad had been in so much pain he couldn't even leave his bed?

Somehow, his dad seems mostly unbothered by his tears, though he leans in again to brush them away with almost absentminded ease, a brief frown marring his features. “Did you get frustrated?” he asks, as if Ben’s sudden distress would have a source so simple.

Ben shakes his head, but everything he can think to say tastes wrong on his tongue. 

The worst part, he realizes quickly, is how certain he is that he wouldn’t have done it. Had their roles been reversed, if Ben had been just fourteen, if he’d had the chance he suspects that his grandfather had denied, he would have . . .

Saying thank you feels wholly wrong. It sort of spits in the face of everything, doesn’t it, to thank someone for something like that. He’s also sure that his dad would really, really fucking hate it if he ever said such a thing. Mostly, he knows, he would hate it because his dad so clearly, obviously, loves him. Unquestionably, truly loves him. Even when Ben had been small, uncertain of his place in the world, unmoored as he was shifted between the houses of stern grandparents and a not-yet-ready father, he’d known that. He’s _always_ known that. And if he wasn’t loved the way he was, if the hardship of his birth had been unworth it, he’d be an only child.

But he isn’t.

Ben blinks back fresh tears, startled by his own internal revelations all over again. He _isn’t_ an only child. Somehow, despite everything, his dad had found that every single misstep taken that had brought him into the world had come to a worthwhile conclusion. And then he’d done it all over again, purposefully, _twice_. Hell, he's probably planning to do it again, too.

His dad murmurs some soft and fond affection to Day before he sets him down in the nest, nuzzling at chubby cheeks with half-lidded eyes and a tired, but unmistakably happy smile, before he turns his attention back to Ben. He doesn’t speak when he sits down across from him, doesn’t do anything other than watch him with equal fondness, equal affection. Ben wonders if he thinks he might be too old to be held and comforted the same way. Maybe he is, and then again maybe he isn’t. Just because no one had done it for him, doesn’t mean Ben can’t indulge in what his own father was very likely starved for. 

Hugging his dad is easy, soothing as he sinks into the embrace that accepts him so readily. Ben buries his face into his neck, solace found in the deep inhale he takes of the scent he’s always recognized as being his own, too. Thank you feels wrong on his tongue, but, “I love you,” meets the air without hesitation.

“Wow, you must really be tired,” his dad hums, pleased even as he jokes.

It’s been awhile since he’s said it, probably, Ben thinks. There are a lot of things like that, thoughts and feelings stored inside and left unspoken just because they’re so constant. But once, not all that long ago in what he’s now aware has been a still achingly short life for a man who has lived through so much, he’d told his dad he’d hated him. “I love you,” he repeats, surer, stronger, as if saying it now will remark a point in time he can’t erase. 

His dad is silent for a moment, merely holding him in turn, before he returns, confused and the tiniest bit choked, “Yeah. I love you too.”  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments as always are much appreciated


	8. They Say Grief Has Five Stages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day is starting school soon. The house will be empty, and Bohn will rattle around in its quiet halls, bereft in a way he can't explain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place four months after Agony.

"Do you want me to pick up a heat suppressant for you before I leave work tomorrow?"

"Why the fuck would I want you to do that?"

It's as the words are leaving his mouth, so utterly incredulous and actually offended, that Bohn realizes something is off. It's there in the way Duen is looking at him, the blink of understanding he receives in the wake of what he’s said. They're not on the same page at all. 

He goes over it again in his head, takes every frame and syllable of the last minute and examines it. Duen’s tone as he’d said it was slow, equally as exhausted as the rest of him, as blatant as the bags under his eyes and the slump in his frame that's been there for almost four months now. Duen wasn’t asking him just because he thinks Bohn should, but because he . . . "You've already taken one, haven't you," Bohn whispers, hoarse, instantly and achingly heartbroken. No. No, _no_ , **_no_**. This isn't what he wanted, what he needed, this is the _opposite_ of it. " _Duen_ ," he pleads, " _no_. Why would you-"

"I'm not ready," Duen whispers. 

Yeah. Okay. That hurts. That hurts way, way more than Bohn expected it would, even though he knew why Duen had done it the second he realized. Duen doesn't look at him when he says it, either, gaze fixed on the mirror and his own reflection as he fumbles to tie his tie. It's the shaking of his hands that gives away how affected he is, but Bohn can barely focus on that when he's forgotten how to breathe.

It's been four months. He thought . . . "I want another baby," Bohn says, far more hushed and obviously, audibly hurt than he'd like. 

"I know."

Bohn flinches back as if struck, stiffening where he sits on the edge of their bed. "If you know, why would you-"

Duen finally looks at him. He does it over his shoulder, just staring, jaw clenched and eyes unreadable, before he repeats, slowly, as if Bohn is _stupid_ , "I'm not ready."

"But I am!" Bohn spits, furious in an instant. They should have agreed on this together, but they didn't. And the worst part is, Duen clearly knew that the feeling wasn't mutual. They should have _talked_ , but Duen didn't say anything. He took the suppressant and didn't even _ask_ . "What the fuck is wrong with you!" Bohn snarls. It hurts. _It hurts_. Like a wildfire, lightning-struck and thick with smoke, burning in every unsteady breath he takes. "I was- you _knew_! You knew I was-"

He can't say it. It stalls in his throat, a lump, a still too raw grief that had hurt _less_ when he could soften it with the thought that they'd be trying again. 

"I want another baby," Bohn says again, tears welling hot and fast in his eyes. "Duen, you _knew_ that."

It was easier to think of it like that, to smother anguish beneath hope. A mistake. They could try again. And now Duen has taken that from him. It'll be another four months before they can now, four more months of Bohn desperately failing to pretend that he doesn’t spend every single fucking day thinking of what they lost. 

But Duen just shakes his head, mouth a thin line, gaze shuttered. "I'm sorry, Bohn."

He's not though, not really. Or he would have said something sooner. He knew what he did would hurt, that's why he only told him after it was too late. He knew. And then he did it anyways.

"I want to try again," Bohn chokes, as if that will change anything. As if begging will turn back time. "I thought we'd be trying again."

For some reason that just makes everything worse. Duen’s tired, sad eyes harden, the fingers still tangled in his tie clenching in the silk. "I _know_ ," he reiterates. "But we're not replacing a _pet_ , Bohn. I'm. Not. Ready."

A pet. Does he really think Bohn saw it as- "Fuck you," Bohn hisses before his own fury even registers in his brain as it flares up. " _Fuck you_. Don't fucking act like I didn't mourn, you absolute _asshole_."

Duen's top lip pulls back from his teeth, his hands dropping to his sides as Bohn gets to his feet and paces over to stand in front of him. He doesn't say anything else, but Bohn can read the doubt in his eyes clear as day. "You're trying to replace-"

"There's nothing to replace!" Bohn snaps. "It wasn't even a fucking person yet!"

Duen tenses, nostrils flaring. " _Yet_ ," he echoes thickly, wetly. " ** _Yet_**! Can't I just be allowed to mourn that we had a 'yet?' That there was a possibility!? I just want more time, Bohn! I'm sorry I didn't get over it as quickly as you!"

Bohn wants to slap him. He takes a step back, twists his head away as he shakes, tears now dripping freely down his cheeks to dampen his shirt. "I didn’t get over _shit_ ," he says, as steadily as he can muster the will to. "I'm the one that fucking miscarried, in case you forgot."

He grabs an empty duffle bag from the shelf in the closet before he even realizes he's done it.

"Bohn-" Duen starts.

"Don't," Bohn warns, already upending a drawer of their dresser. T-shirts, pants, underwear, he shoves them all haphazardly into the bag. He can smell Duen’s mounting alarm, and he does not care. 

"Bohn!"

Bohn whirls on him, chest heaving around a hitched, broken sound he doesn’t mean to let slip. "If you try and stop me, you'll make it worse," he says through his teeth. "You can not fucking fix this with an apology, Duen."

They've said a lot of shit to each other over the years, things they didn't mean, things they did and regretted, but this takes the god damn cake. The very implication of it has Bohn still reeling, leaves him choking on fresh agony with every breath he takes. _How dare he_ , he thinks, distant, bitter, brokenhearted, try and say that Bohn had not, or was not still, mourning the life that had started and then been snuffed out still _inside_ him.

He's not too shocked to find Day standing just outside their ajar bedroom door, and Bohn barely pauses in his steps to crouch and pick him up one-handed, settling him on his hip as he stalks into his son's room next. Day signs, "Sad," and then "leaving?" at him when Bohn sets him down on his bed and moves to snag his backpack off the hook on the back of the door. 

"Don't worry about it, Daylily," Bohn soothes as he gathers up more clothes, a few books, a favored plush duck, and stuffs them into the child-sized backpack. Day puts it on without any urging, and Bohn has him back in his arms as soon as he’s set. "And I'm not leaving without you, cuddly boy," he assures.

Bee is at school, Bohn regrets, but he stops by her room anyways, rubs his cheek over her pillow for a long moment, fiercely hoping she'll understand. If worse comes to worst, he'll come back for her, but he hopes it won't. At the very least, he's loathe to be cruel enough to take both kids, though a bruised and angry part of him definitely considers it. Were he a lesser man, he might. If words were enough to tear down a decade of dedication and affection, he would. 

"Where are you going to go?"

Bohn stalls in the foyer, held still by his own telltale heart that will never not love Duen with every single beat of it, until he takes a slow, grounding breath. "I don't know why you care," he manages, purposefully leaving the question unanswered even though he can smell Duen’s barely tempered anger, his increasing agony.

He manages to get all the way to the end of the driveway before he breaks down. His hands are shaking while he scrolls through his contacts on his phone, tears wetting the shoulder of Day’s shirt and overall strap where he's clinging to his neck. And by the time he dials Bohn is sobbing.

"Y-you said I could call you for anything," he croaks once the line picks up.

There's silence for a moment, though whether it's stunned or something else, Bohn doesn't know. "Yes," Frong says, "yes, of course. What-"

"Can you come get me?"

~~~***~~~

It feels just a little bit traitorous to seek shelter at the apartment of his husband's cousin (that's practically his brother), but Thara takes one look at him, sighs and runs a hand through his hair, and doesn't say a word. Bohn figures that Frong already said a few things to him, and decides he doesn't really care.

He also pretty promptly hands Day to them, dumps his duffle on the floor by the door, and goes into their guestroom to collapse onto the fresh sheets and _cry_. Apparently he falls asleep, too, because when he eventually blinks sticky, painfully dried out eyelids open again it's dusk outside the fifth floor window. The bedroom door is cracked, just enough to spill light into the room from the hall beyond, but Bohn doesn't give in to the temptation to investigate. He can hear Frong talking, can tell by the slower cadence of it that he’s speaking to Day and probably signing for him as he goes. It's a soothing sort of sound, a comfort in the knowledge that Day seems to be doing alright despite how Bohn just totally (if hopefully temporarily) upended his life. Normally Day doesn’t deal well with change, so any indication that he's not too upset is a blessing. 

"Pudding isn't a good dinner," Frong is saying. "But you can have a little anyways while I make actual dinner."

 _Spoiled_ , Bohn thinks warmly, if still rather distantly.

"No, your dad is fine," Frong says after a pause in which Bohn assumes Day is signing. "He's just upset right now, and hurt." Another pause. "Not 'ouch' hurt, like . . . Feelings. Ah, fu- _gosh_. What is the one for feelings?" Silence. "I'm going to guess that's it, because you're a genius, Day. So yeah, his feelings. I'm sure you've also had hurt feelings before, right?"

More quiet, this time punctuated by achingly familiar, but somehow heartbreakingly foreign, kitchen sounds. The clang of a whisk on the side of a glass bowl, the suction noise of a refrigerator door being pulled open, the flick of a burner being turned on. Bohn muffles a sob into the pillows he buries his face in. They're starchy clean, smelling of nothing, and he finds little comfort in the motion even as he curls further in on himself.

"I _also_ get hurt feelings about bedtime," Frong says with just the right amount of genuineness to the words that Bohn knows Day is eating the attention up. "If there are no good bedtime stories before I have to sleep, what's the point?"

Bohn drifts off again, lulled by the solace he finds in the faint notes of the half of the conversation he's privy too, exhausted still by a weight that hangs heavy in his chest and stutters every breath.

~~~***~~~

The world is, as it has been for awhile now, just a little too cold when dawn blooms. Bohn has never been a morning person, per say, but he has been an early riser since he was fourteen and much too suddenly made to be, so he's used to waking with the sun by the time he’s in his thirties. He doesn’t sit up once he's conscious though, his whole body tensing as he's instantly and painfully reminded of the day before. The room he's in is not his own. The scent on the sheets, the pillows, is his alone, and the warmth of Day curled up and still asleep under his arm where he lays on his side is the only other presence in the bed. 

He's devastated and furious as it all sinks in again, but the overall feeling is distant, numb beneath that constant wash of grief he's starting to get too used to, now. 

Of course he knows why Duen said what he did, understands with deep, unhealed anguish that his way of dealing with the loss doesn't make sense to his partner. But while Duen had howled and sobbed and choked on his tears, Bohn had lived with muted, instinctually dulled despair, caught in the physical pain until it had lifted enough for him to finally, finally cry. 

He doesn't remember much of that week, he's not sure if he even can. It's pressed down into that same box he's locked away most of his first pregnancy in, and the filtered, copper-tinged bits of it are still just this side of too much. And maybe that's where he went wrong. While Duen had been so openly bereaved, he had shut it all away, let it stay buried in a week of pain and blood until he'd stifled his own eventual tears under a self-made promise that he would have another chance.

A chance, he recalls with a still faint, but sorely aching bitterness, he did not get. 

He does not resent that Duen made a choice. But he hates that in doing so, his own was taken from him.

A sob wrings out of his lungs as it hits him, all over again, that it will be months now until he'll have that opportunity once more, and likely longer than that if he's actually honest with himself. Duen is _grieving_ , he's not ready, no matter how desperately, _desperately_ Bohn wants him to be.

It would be easier on Bohn if he was. It would be so easy, comfort taken in the nine months of preparation they could have had ahead of them, solace found in two sets of hands tracing out slow signs of new life on his abdomen, agony dulled in the wake of fresh new starts.

He wonders, not for the first time, if this was somehow all his fault. When he'd finally cried it had been for that very reason, anguish over Duen’s grief outweighing his own as that horrible, inkling of a thought had found him in the dead of night. It's not impossible, right? It could have been any number of things, and even though the doctor had called it a simply unviable pregnancy, had said it was just something that happens, sometimes, Bohn can't help but think that maybe . . .

He has to claw that thought apart before it can really take hold of him. He _has to_ , or it will consume him entirely. There are many, so many things that Bohn finds himself at fault for, some that will always be just mistakes and others that ended up happy accidents, but if he lets this be one of them, he knows with painful certainty that it will be the one thing he won't heal from. It'll take hold, and fester, and burn, until it destroys him. 

He can't let it. He _can't_. He has three fucking kids to look after still, two that definitely are young enough yet to actually need him. It softens the blow, thinking of that, lessens that now latent, ever present ache. 

Day stirs in his arms when Bohn buries his face against him, sleepy hands reaching out to tangle around his neck. "Dad?"

"S'fine," Bohn soothes quickly, even though he knows Day can definitely feel him shaking, feel him crying. That's probably what has drawn one of his increasingly common verbalizations out of him. "I'll be okay. Can you let Dad just hold you for a little bit, cuddly boy?"

Day nods.

He probably shouldn't take such comfort in this, Bohn thinks as he strokes a hand up and down Day’s back, every breath he takes a deep, held on to inhale with parted lips so he can lose himself in their shared scent. It's soothing none the less though, settles his anguish in slow minutes until he can blink and not find his vision clouded with tears. His body at least knows this, his instincts latching on to the rhythm of a small body and heart held close, little hands clutching at him out of a still present necessity. Not for the first time, it hits him how much he’s sure this is not something Duen understands. 

Love is different for them, he decides, when it comes to their kids. While he knows that it's there for Duen, just as fierce, just as strong and unshakable, he also knows that it is not born upon the same roots. And while Bohn’s love does not in any way peter out over time, it surges when his babies are still small, just like this, when they still need him. It’s overwhelming, all consuming. It occupies his every thought as background noise, finds a home in his chest like a carefully banked fire, burning on coals until something flares it back into full force. 

Bee is ten now, and Bohn can look at her, send her off to school, and smile without feeling like he's tearing a fucking limb off to do it. But it had taken him _years_ to get to that point, and it had been eased by the fact that Day had been born, the house not empty in her temporary absence. 

Ben is twenty, and helping him pack his things, unpack them again, and set him up to live miles and miles away had left Bohn in tatters inside for months, the emptiness of his room dulled once they'd shifted the house around to make way for something new that no longer has a due date. 

Bohn holds Day a little closer to him, finds his gravity in the weight and scent and sound of him, and tries not to think about a home that will be too quiet, too cold, for him to bear once he starts school in a few months. 

Soon, Day won't need him either.

~~~***~~~

After two days, Bohn gives up on holding off on the heat suppressant. There was no point in waiting anyways, but some stupid, foolish part of him wanted to, just in case. It really was pretty dumb of him, though, because Duen doesn't lie. And even if he had been, Bohn kinda doesn't want to fuck him right now, so it's a moot point.

A box shows up in the hall outside Frong and Thara’s apartment. For one horrible, stricken moment Bohn is sure he’s fucked up irreparably, but it’s just a prescription note, two of them, and the quilt he tends to favor when he nests. It was Duen’s when he was a child, kept safe in a box under their bed, only ever drawn out of storage when Bohn needed it. It hurts to admit he needs it now, face buried in the fraying squares that still smell like his husband in every fibre. He should probably try and patch the thing up a bit, but he's never been good at housekeeping like that.

The first prescription is for the heat suppressant, and Thara takes it to get filled for him when Bohn hands it over. The second he keeps to himself, tucked away in the duffle. It's for a refill of the antidepressants he took for over a year while Bee was sick. Bohn stares at it for a long, long time, heart in his throat, especially when he notes that it's signed by Thara, and not Duen, the number between it and the one for his suppressants both odd. 

There was a third, Bohn realizes, torn out of the pad and filled between them. And he knows with certainty that it wasn't a rut suppressant, because Duen had already taken one. 

"Is he okay?" He asks Thara later, the cool night air not the only thing making him shiver. He needs to know. Anger and hurt aside, that doesn't change _anything_. Bohn’s love for Duen is forever, regardless of words said while they're both too raw to think them through. 

Thara blinks at him from where he's sitting at the kitchen table, his attention diverted between his laptop and a file folder of paperwork he's leafing through. His reading glasses are on the edge of his nose, and he stares at Bohn for a long and quiet moment before he sighs. "It's just a low dose, three months of automatic refills."

Bohn can't fault Duen for it, that would be hypocritical. But he can fault himself, sick with guilt until he gags on it. It leaves him sleepless, tossing and turning while trying not to wake Day. Duen is hurting, grieving, and Bohn knows all too well the precipice on which one finds themselves to need that extra boost their body stops giving. 

But he’s grieving too. And the thought of going back before he’s ready, before that open, awful wound in his heart has healed over enough for him to look Duen in the eye and _not_ hear the words, “ _I’m sorry I didn’t get over it as quickly as you_ ,” ringing in his ears leaves him choking on a newer, somehow deeper agony than he can bear.

Day cries through most of the sixth evening. He’s inconsolable, and by the time it’s past midnight and he’s still hiccuping on sobs, hands restlessly forming the signs Bohn made for him that represent Phorh and Bee, he’s ready to give up. His pain, he knows, comes last even in his own mind. And ultimately, he’s always been weakest in this way. Day should be with his family, and when he finally falls asleep, still teary and upset, Bohn resolves to at the very least take him home, even if he can’t stay there himself.

The decision is sort of ripped from him, though, when Boss shows up the next morning with Sun hanging off of one arm, and his other hand occupied with holding on to the collar of Bee’s shirt like he’s scruffing a dog. “Guess who hotwired your car,” he says blandly.

“I hotwired your car!” Bee exclaims, way too fucking proud considering the circumstances.

Bohn lets Day run to her though, heart full for a moment while she crouches down to sign so quickly with him that he can’t keep up with what they’re saying. “Duen called you?” he asks Boss quietly.

To his surprise Boss hesitates, just a little, a tight frown pulling at his mouth before he says, “Technically, no. He called Ram. Who called me to bring Bee over, because Bee threatened to try it again if someone didn’t. She got halfway down the block, by the way.”

Bohn puts his head in his hands, taking slow, deep breaths so that he doesn’t have a much too belated panic attack. Fucking hell. If he had been there, he probably would have flipped. He still might, actually. “Bee,” he says as evenly as he can. “You’re grounded.”

“Yup,” Bee says much too easily. “Phorh already said.”

Ah. 

“Double grounded, then,” Bohn corrects. Because why not, fuck it. She _hotwired his fucking sports car_.

Bee gives him a raised eyebrow, but doesn’t protest that, either. “I just wanted to see you guys,” she mumbles after a pause, still signing stuff to Day that Bohn knows is totally different from what she’s saying to him. Something about Duen, he thinks, because he recognizes the gesture for “Phorh” again, and more than once, despite how she’s trying to keep her hands just enough out of his line of sight to actually see what’s being said. “Also,” she adds, way too smug, “It’s not like I stole it.”

Bohn drags his hands over his face and tries very, very hard not to think about what an unholy terror she’s going to be as a teenager. “Three months,” he decides. “No desserts, tablet only for schoolwork, no playdates,” he says.

 _That_ earns him an indignant, horrified squawk of a sound from her, but she bites back on the last notes of it when Bohn sinks down into a chair, head still in his hands and his chest heaving around every breath he takes. “Dad, I just . . .” She tries, unsteady now, too. 

“I know, bumble-Bee. But you can’t do that. What if you’d gotten hurt?” 

Fucking hell, she probably scared the _shit_ out of Duen. Bohn really, really doesn’t want to think about that, but it sticks in his head regardless, the mental image of Duen running after a car being driven by their god damn ten year old, who’s way too smart for her own good. He must have been terrified, and that on top of everything else, has Bohn choking on a sound he definitely doesn’t mean for his kids to hear. 

Thara, ever the man of the best and the worst timing, comes skidding into the room as soon as it leaves his lungs. “Whoa! You know what, I think it’s about time I pick out another snake! Let’s go to the pet store!”

Frong is hot on his heels, hands on his hips as Thara scoops up Day on one side, Sun on his other, and leans down to whisper something to Bee Bohn doesn’t hear. “You better not actually come back with _another_ snake!” Frong calls after him, even as Thara gets the younger two kids to start chanting, “Field trip! Field trip!”

“Just a little snake,” Thara soothes, planting a kiss on his cheek before he drags all three children right out the door of the apartment.

“Little snakes turn into big snakes! Thara!” Frong hollers.

Bohn will buy the both of them a hundred snakes, so long as it means Bee and Day don’t have to see him break down. Again. 

“I need to go home,” he gasps into his palms, the words thick with how untrue they sound even to his own ears. He can’t. He should, he _can't_.

The room is silent while he weeps, fragility in the air as Frong sits down on a chair beside him, and Boss stays standing to run quiet fingers up and down his back. “Am I being selfish?” he asks, and it’s a rhetorical sort of inquiry, one he’s sure he doesn’t actually want the answer to. Is he though? Is it wrong of him to want what he does so soon? “I just . . . I just wanted to try again, I-”

He’s thankful, infinitely, for the fact that neither of his friends answer him. Frong reaches out to take one of his hands when he tries to wipe away tears he can’t hold back, but if that’s an answer, it’s one spoken in a level of understanding he didn’t expect, given in a squeeze of fingers around his.

“Mek was like that, too,” Boss says softly, some minutes later. His hand has stilled in its casual back and forth motion over Bohn’s spine, and it takes a long, heartrending second for Bohn to realize what Boss is telling him, the truth clear before Boss confirms it with an even quieter. “But I wasn’t ready yet.”

He didn’t know. And Bohn can see when he glances up to find Frong’s equally startled gaze, that he wasn’t the only one. “Boss,” Frong starts, faltering on anything he can possibly say.

Boss shakes his head, and the hand he has on Bohn’s back renews its careful path. “It was a long time ago now. And, uh . . . It was twice,” he admits. “Only seven percent of omega-leaning betas are men, and of those infertility issues are . . . They’re pretty common. But I knew that, and it got to me, anyways, when it happened. Sunny was an accident,” he laughs, and Bohn sits up enough to stare at him. He says it so easily, almost carefree, as if the secrets he’s just laid bare for them aren’t just that. Secrets. Two of them, Bohn thinks dizzily, Boss had been where he is _twice_ and none of them knew. “We weren’t going to actually try again, for awhile at least, but a condom broke,” Boss snickers. 

Bohn wonders, chest tight, if he’ll ever get to that point. Boss is _laughing_ , chuckling into his free hand as he asks Frong if that sort of thing might be an acceptable story to tell at your child’s wedding in twenty years. “Did you fight?” he asks hoarsely, and Boss blinks down at him with such incredulity he knows he’s being a dumbass.

“Yeah,” Boss admits. “Of course we did. Probably about the same stuff you and Duen are, too, though that’s none of my business. It was . . . It was hard, for awhile, but Mek is . . . He’s private, and we kept it to ourselves, grieved together. I think that helped, a lot. There wasn’t a family to break the news to, and we had sort of dreaded the possibility from the start, so we didn’t tell any friends we'd conceived, either. So when it happened it was just between us. And having that time just to be sad about it together . . . That was a relief. But yeah, after the second time we did fight, because I wanted to give up, and Mek didn’t.”

Bohn wonders, but doesn’t ask, if Mek had ever said anything awful to him about it, or if Boss had yelled. They’d fought, apparently, and he can’t help but think that they must be just like everyone else in their agony. They're all human, after all.

Sometimes, he knows all too well, it’s too easy to say the worst sort of things when you’re hurting. 

“I said ‘fuck you’ to him,” Bohn whispers.

“Been there,” Boss sighs.

“I’m gonna say that tonight if Thara brings home another fucking snake,” Frong mutters, but Bohn knows he probably actually won’t. Thara will show it to him, tell him whatever silly, weird and cutesy name he’s picked out, and Frong will give him that exasperated and enamored look he always does.

The snake is named Lilypad, for some fucking reason, even though it’s a _snake_ , and Bohn ignores Frong’s shouting over it while he tries to very carefully reiterate to Bee that she’s super, mega grounded without giving away that he’s a little impressed that his ten year old successfully hotwired his car.

~~~***~~~

Bohn knows Duen is there before he’s even fully awake. He can hear the distant sounds of Bee and Day in the apartment beyond the guest room, already up and active despite the hour, but he can’t focus on that because _Duen_ is there, sitting on the edge of the bed. It’s almost instinctive the way he rolls over, how he reaches out to wrap his arms around his husband’s middle and bury his face in his lap. Duen’s hands are shaking just as much as he is as he settles them on his shoulders, cards them through his hair, and when Bohn sucks in a long, staggered breath that breaks at the end, he makes such a heartbreakingly wounded noise that Bohn can’t not _weep_. 

“I’m sorry,” Duen sobs, kissing his apologies that Bohn neither wants nor needs over his neck, the shell of his ear, trembling with every thick inhale that heaves through him. “I’m sorry. _I’m so sorry_ , Bohn. God, _please_ , I can’t- If you leave me, I-”

“I’m not,” Bohn manages around his own tears. “ _I’m not_.” Never. _Never_.

Duen is quiet in the wake of that, and after awhile he shifts to tangle them together more properly, face pressed into the crook of Bohn’s neck as he breathes. Bohn wonders if the scent of him had started to fade from their bed, a thought confirmed when Duen tightens his hold on him as if he can't be close enough. “I know I’m not being fair to you,” Duen starts. “And I . . . I knew that you . . . That you were using the prospect of another baby to heal, but I . . . I’m not . . . It doesn’t work like that for me,” he whispers. “Because it was my fault.”

Cold. Bohn freezes, stricken as he says it, ice in every panicked pump of blood through his veins. 

“I’m supposed to keep that from happening,” Duen continues, oblivious to Bohn’s mounting terror. “ _Me_ , that’s _my job_. And maybe it always would have happened, like the doctor said. But maybe it wouldn’t have, and maybe . . . Maybe it could happen again. And I don’t . . . I don’t know if I can bear that,” his voice shatters around the confession, hitches into such deep, unfiltered anguish, and it’s that that makes Bohn fall apart.

Not his own grief, or the loss itself, but that horrible, porcelain moment where Duen tells him just how scared he is.

“Me too,” he sobs, shaking his head against Duen’s shoulder as his agony leaves him in harsh and staggered wails. “Me too.”

And maybe someday they'll be able to talk about it, to quietly explain to someone else that there are awful, inevitable things in the universe that they've had to bear, but those are thoughts for a still far off someday.

For now, Bohn accepts, they have to be here, stuck in the center of their grief for a little while longer yet, healing at different paces. Still, though, Bohn wants to be clear, wants to make sure that Duen understands that this is not something that can settle into a "never," for him. "I know," he manages after he gets the breath to, can form the words and not have them leave his body as a sob, "that you need time. And I can give you that," he swears, even though it pulls at something viscerally painful in his chest.

Day is starting school soon. The house will be empty, and Bohn will rattle around in its quiet halls, bereft in a way he can't explain. 

"I can give you that," he says again, slumping further into Duen’s arms as they tighten around him even more. "But please, it has to . . . It can't be like that forever. _Please_. I want . . . I want another baby. I want another baby _with you_."

Duen doesn't answer for a long, long moment, but he does press closer, his face wet where he keeps it hidden in the curve of Bohn's neck. "A year," he whispers finally, and Bohn sags further into him, limp with relief. "Can you give me a year? I want that too, I want that _so much_. I love . . ." He falters, _harshly_ , so choked that Bohn tries furiously to hold him impossibly closer. "When you're . . ." Duen tries again, "When the kids are little and at home all day, and when you're pregnant, you're so . . . You're so _happy_. I don't want you to lose that. I love that about you. But I _can't_ yet."

He does get it. Bohn blinks back a new wave of anguish, overturns it under the lifted weight of being understood where he didn't expect to be. "That's my job," he admits softly. "It's the only job I've ever cared to have." There's a degree on the wall of their bedroom, but Bohn has never used it. "I honestly don't know what I'll do once I'm too old," he says, half a laugh, half a sob, because he really, really doesn’t. 

One day, he knows, his house will be just the two of them, and that aches almost as much as everything else. 

"We can take up fishing," Duen says after a moment, and Bohn can't help but laugh for real.

" _Ew_. I'm thirty-four, not _sixty_." Yet.

Duen hums in agreement. "Baking?"

"It's like you've never met me," Bohn deadpans. "Do you want me to burn the house down?" Hell, maybe they're warranted for that level of excitement at this point. Fuck it.

Duen holds him, just a little tighter. "Well, whatever shitty, old person hobby we decide on, let's just make sure we do it together, okay?"

"Yeah," Bohn agrees, as easy as breathing, because for him this has always been his one, unbreakable certainty. "But baking is definitely out."

For him at least. He imagines though, warmed by a distant summer sun, a house that's not too quiet, the smell of something breaded and sweet cooling on a windowsill, and his kids, all _four_ of them he's certain their lives have room for, visiting with children of their own.

Duen can bake. Bohn can be the world's coolest grandpa who definitely didn't accidentally teach their daughter how to hotwire a car and _certainly_ wouldn't pass on that info to another generation. Probably.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, as always, are appreciated.


	9. The Needs of a Proper Alpha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. Yeah, King is not going to be ascending the metaphorical size ladder of that plug set in that time frame. No sir. “Sorry,” he whispers before he can think better of it. 
> 
> Ram is on his feet in an instant, rounding the side of the table to take King’s face between his hands before he crouches down until they’re eye level. “P’King,” he murmurs, “your comfort is my priority, nothing else.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another horny RamKing to soothe the pain of the last chapter.

"You know," Ram says, completely without any prompting or prior context, "you could probably fuck _me_ during my rut."

And of course he says it over dinner, because for some reason that's where all their communication tends to happen. At the fucking kitchen table, past five at night, like civilized people. King may or may not drop the roll he'd been about to take a bite out of onto the god damn floor. "Uhm, excuse me?" He says, and it doesn't come out as a squeak, no sir. 

Ram gives him one of his quiet, baleful stares and does not repeat himself. He knows King heard him, and Ram has never been one to waste his words. 

Which just leaves King to sit there, his bread gathering dust on the floor, with _that_ image flaring to glorious, technicolor life in his brain. Ram basically just tossed a wrench right into the two solitary gears that keep his thoughts turning, and King doesn't know what else to do other than gape at him. Eventually he settles on what he always does when he finds himself at a loss for . . . Anything, and takes his phone out, opens his ever-populated Amazon wishlist of seeds and pots and other plant based paraphernalia, and indulges in some quick and totally mind numbing retail therapy until his raging boner decides to stop stealing all the blood he needs for the opposite head to function enough to answer.

King sets his phone down, steeples his hands together beneath his chin, and takes a deep, drawn out breath. "You're sure?" He says evenly, proud of his own resolve. 

Ram nods. 

Well alright then. King exhales, closing his eyes as he mulls the idea over. Would Ram even get anything out of that? He’d been under the impression that one of the big (ha!) parts of a rut was the knotting, but surely Ram wouldn’t suggest it if he wouldn’t benefit from it somehow. Right? “Will that even help you at all?” King can’t stop himself from asking, too curious, as always, for his own good. 

The total deadpan stare Ram levels him with is an answer all its own, but he clearly thinks King is at least a little bit stupid for questioning him at all when he says, blandly, “My prostate doesn’t magically disappear during rut, P’King.”

“Ah. I see. Good to know.”

Ram rolls his eyes.

But seriously, though, “I thought you’d want to knot me,” King says.

He’s relieved, just a little, when Ram’s gaze softens. “I do. But I still think we need to work up to that.” He waves a vague hand towards their bedroom as he says it, as if by gesture alone King will be reminded of the drawer hiding the plug collection he bought last week that King has done nothing but apprehensively stare at so far. Which, to be fair, King definitely thinks about it immediately. “And my rut is next week.”

Yeah. _Yeah_ , King is not going to be ascending the metaphorical size ladder of that plug set in that time frame. No sir. “Sorry,” he whispers before he can think better of it. 

Ram is on his feet in an instant, rounding the side of the table to take King’s face between his hands before he crouches down until they’re eye level. “P’King,” he murmurs, “your comfort is my priority, nothing else.”

King swallows. “Okay. But . . .”

“P’King,” Ram repeats steadily, as always saying so much with just one word. He holds King’s nervous gaze steadily, one of his rare but brilliant smiles gracing his lips. It settles King’s heart instantly, and he leans forward to wrap his arms around Ram’s shoulders with a sigh.

“Alright. If you’re sure, I’d like to.”

~~~***~~~

To King’s dismay, this too takes some planning. “It’s your first experience with my rut,” Ram explains carefully later, while they’re cocooned in the cool shadows of their room. He flexes his fingers in the sheets when King kisses a trail up his spine, humming a low note under his breath that treads dangerously close to a purr. But King is nothing if not determined. “It’ll probably be best if we wait till I’ve cooled down quite a bit, try for day two or even three just to make sure I’m not too-” His breath hitches, King’s favorite sound, a shiver licking up through him as King presses inside. “Hmm,” he sighs. “Not too rough with you.”

King sort of forgot the beginning of that sentence, and it takes him a long moment to process it through the way his body is cataloguing everything else. _Tight, hot, good_. “Good boy,” he gasps out as Ram’s hips roll back into him, always eager for whatever King has to offer. 

He gets an actual purr for that one, soft and deep, almost tentative in its candor even when King starts moving. The first time he’d managed to wring one out of his boyfriend, Ram had been _mortified_ , flushed so hard he’d practically glowed in the dark. Now though he settles into it with just a little coaxing, even if the tenor stays fairly quiet. Although, King thinks smugly as he finds the right angle, watches Ram twist his head to the side so he can _see_ him bite his lip around a groan, Ram having such a tentative purr matches so well with the rest of him, he’s not sure he’d have it any other way.

It’s not like Ram’s knot doesn’t form when he bottoms on a normal day, King reminds himself. And once it comes down to it, the procedure will probably be about the same during rut as it is now. He listens for when Ram is close, ears well trained by now to recognize the way his breath catches, how he can’t quite hold back those pleased little sounds, his hands white knuckled in the sheets of their bed. King reaches around to get a hand on him, circles a forefinger and thumb along the base where he can feel the knot starting to swell and tightening his grip until it rests heavy and hot in his palm. “I’ve got you, good boy,” he praises between Ram’s shoulder blades, a kiss left to punctuate it. 

He’s a little jealous, sometimes, of how intense alpha orgasms seem to be. Ram pants when he comes, scrabbling at the sheets for a moment, rocking back onto King’s cock like he has to have him as deep as he can take when he falls apart. As always, it’s a lot, King’s fingers sticky and dripping within seconds with Ram pulsing in his grip, spilling across the towel set out beneath them for just this purpose. He moves with him when Ram jerks forward into his hand, once, twice, his partner choking on his own breath before he whines a hoarse, “P- _P’King_.”

King holds still as he quivers with aftershocks, murmuring over his back as Ram’s legs tremble and threaten to pull them down. “Careful sweetheart,” King warns, getting his other hand on his hip to try and steady him. “You’ll make a mess of yourself. Can I come inside, or are you too sensitive?”

Ram shakes his head, “Go ahead.”

It doesn’t take much. King’s always on edge after watching Ram come, his own pleasure at its highest when his partner’s is, too. Ram is definitely a little overstimulated though, every thrust making him shiver, the pitch and rhythm of his breathing a telltale sign. He likes that though, King is sure, and when King finally lets go, thumps his head down between Ram’s shoulders with a staggered sound of his own, Ram’s purr is back in full force.

Of course it’s still quiet, but King relishes in its constancy, rubbing his cheek over Ram’s neck to feel the rumble of it before he pulls out. He shoves the gross mess they’ve made of the towel to the floor, ignoring Ram’s affronted noise about it being on the carpet now, and rolls over to stare up at the ceiling. “Anyways,” he says as evenly as he can manage while he’s still a little dizzy with post coital bliss. “You’re thinking we’ll have to try for day two or three?”

“This time,” Ram agrees after a pause wherein he stretches out in languid contentment at his side, head pillowed on the curve of his arms. “It’ll let us skip most of my peak, if not all of it, which is the part where I’d be most likely to hurt you.” King still doesn’t think that Ram would, but he keeps that to himself. Just as Ram has placed his comfort as paramount, he’s determined to do the same. Ram had been uneasy enough about knotting him outside of rut, he’s not going to push what his boyfriend clearly isn’t willing to give just yet. “I guess I could . . . Text you?” Ram hedges. “When it seems like it would be a good time?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

~~~***~~~

“Do you think I should get him a collar?”

Across the table, Bohn chokes on the tea he was drinking. King is suddenly even more glad than ever that Duen isn’t there, because he’s pretty sure making the pregnant omega almost asphyxiate on their drink right in front of their alpha would be a death sentence. He waits, politely of course, for Bohn to grab a napkin to cough into, immune to the glare he’s given. “You did that on purpose,” Bohn accuses.

King shrugs. “But do you think I should?” he asks again. This is important. He needs to know. And also, he doesn’t have anything better to do right now other than sit in coffee shops with his best friend, mulling over the pros and cons of collaring his boyfriend while he waits for said boyfriend to text him when he’s ready to be fucked silly.

“I have zero opinions on your sex life,” Bohn says, an answer that sounds suspiciously rehearsed. As if to confirm that, he quickly follows it with, “But if I _did_ , I’d say wait till next time.”

Honestly, that was not the answer King was expecting. “Really?”

“Really. Cycles are intense enough as it is, and if he’s anything like Duen-”

“Please don’t make me think about that,” King pleads.

Totally unimpeded, Bohn continues, “-you’ll probably have your hands full just with the rut itself. Although,” he squints at King for a second. “You’ll be totally sober for this, huh. So it’s probably something you could try in the future. It would require at least one of you to have your head together enough to actually have the presence of mind for kinky stuff.”

King’s pretty sure collars are base level kink, at best, but he keeps that to himself. “You guys don’t get kinky during cycles?”

Bohn waves a dismissive hand. “Dude. If you think either of us can think straight past the total basic instincts that take over, boy do I have news for you.”

“What instincts?” King asks before he can think it through, horrified when Bohn just grins and makes finger guns at his own baby bump. Gross. “Okay, fair,” King concedes after taking a long, _long_ sip of his coffee. “But Ram doesn’t want kids. Also, he’s going to be bottoming, so-”

This time when Bohn chokes on his drink, it comes out his nose.

~~~***~~~

At this point, two years and some change into their relationship, King is pretty good at making himself scarce during Ram’s ruts. So good, unfortunately, that he doesn’t notice the text for almost a half hour after it pings his phone.

He races back to the apartment like he’s been lit on fire once he does though, almost forgetting to take his shoes off before he skids down the hall. Bohn had mentioned that King would be essentially, instinctually more put together for this, but King is sure he only did so because, as an omega, he forgets what used to tie packs together. It wasn't anything so complicated as the politics of it all. Leadership held by mated pairs fluctuated, was often composed of even two or three sets of omega and alpha couples, rather than just one. But a ruler is nothing without their subjects, and betas were always made to please. 

So while yes, King is fairly aware of himself and his desires at a level he's sure someone like Bohn is not during a cycle, the moment he picks up on that intoxicating, alluring scent in the air, he's just the tiniest bit dizzy. It's not the first time he’s been privileged enough to catch it, but it leaves him a little breathless and punchdrunk all the same. The excitement overwhelms him in an instant, his heart racing as he fumbles with his belt while he pads towards the bedroom. Ram is beyond the door, he thinks, a new and heady warmth in his chest. Ram needs him. And King is crafted on instincts that are ever eager to serve.

Apparently, Ram is eager to _be_ served, because the second King stumbles into the bedroom he straight up _pounces_ on him. King gasps, startled as he’s actually, unabashedly tackled onto the bed, belt barely undone and unsteady hands shoving his pants and boxers down around his thighs faster than he can say, “Go!” Ram is already panting, flushed in the low light of the room and shaking. “Hey, _hey_ ,” King soothes, sitting up enough to run a hand through his boyfriend’s un-gelled hair, brushing sweat soaked bangs back from hazy eyes. Fuck, is this really Ram when he’s _not_ at his peak? He’s clearly desperate, and King makes a low, sympathetic noise in the back of his throat as he notes it. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, “I’m sorry. Did I make you wait too long?”

He definitely must have, because Ram takes his attempts at settling him for permission, and shoves him back down on the mattress with a firm hand to King’s sternum. “Alright, alright,” King agrees. He gets Ram to lift the hand just long enough to tug his shirt over his head, wiggles to kick his pants off into a heap at the end of the bed, pinned down again the second he stills. King lifts an interested eyebrow, thumbs rubbing circles across Ram’s trembling thighs. “You change your mind?” he asks, curious. Not that he’s opposed, but he’ll definitely need some time if he’s the one that’s going to be on his back tonight, and he’s not too sure that’s time Ram can give him right now. But he barely finishes thinking that thought before Ram has taken him in hand, given him a firm stroke over his already hard length, and adjusted to brace his other palm more firmly on King’s chest before he sinks down on him all in one go _like_ _a fucking champ_.

King gasps, scrabbling at Ram’s hips to steady him when his boyfriend’s back understandably arches. “R-Ram! _Fuck_ , are you okay?” He can barely get the words out, too instantly caught in the throes of his own pleasure and choking on every syllable. But Ram just nods, bottom lip pulled up between his teeth, and when King shifts to glide hesitant fingers over where they’re connected he’s met with the drip and slide of an almost _excessive_ amount of lube. “Fuck, Ram. You really were desperate,” he breathes, stunned. 

Any other day he might have time to think about it, to roll the image of Ram waiting for him, three fingers deep in himself and writhing with need around in his mind, but not today. Today, he already has a very needy Ram _right here_ , panting on every inhale, whining on the exhale as he pushes up onto his knees and grinds back down. It’s quick, dirty in a way King somehow didn’t quite expect, and he’s enraptured as he registers how _loud_ Ram is being. 

He’s usually almost painfully quiet during sex save for the growls and purrs King is fairly certain he can’t help. But every time he rises, falls, Ram full on _moans_. And it’s not quiet, nuh-uh, not even a little. It’s sonorous, and it’s _filthy_.

“Oh my god,” King whispers, his own breath hitching when Ram answers it with a vocal, “ _Ah!_ ”

“ _King_ ,” Ram whimpers when he swivels his hips, seems to find just the right angle of it to make his pleasure visibly ripple up through him, leave him gasping. _No honorific_ , King thinks dizzily, _wow_. “King,” Ram starts again, “I- _hah!_ Hands. Please,” he begs. “I need . . . _Mm!_ ”

King blinks, coming back to himself enough to actually figure out what Ram is asking him for. His boyfriend’s cock is bobbing as he moves, dripping precum onto King’s abdomen, his knot already half formed. Oh. _Oooohhh_. King fumbles, curling both hands around the length of it tightly until Ram keens. “Like this?” He asks, relieved when Ram nods.

Of all the things King expected from Ram’s ruts, realizing that his boyfriend has actually been holding back in all aspects of their coupling really wasn’t one of them. Normally when Ram bottoms he’s almost uncharacteristically submissive, eager just to take whatever King wants to give him. For fuck’s sake, he’s _never_ ridden him, King acknowledges, torn between delight and confusion. He wonders if Ram thought this too might be too rough for him.

Geeze. He likes plants, he doesn’t need to be treated like one. A little manhandling isn’t going to break him.

Probably.

His first taste of his partner’s rut orgasm is exactly that, a _taste_. Ram comes suddenly, rather explosively, shaking apart on a downward roll of his hips. He growls, choking on the sound as if he’s trying to stifle it, jerking into King’s hands to get that stimulation of knotting as best as he can. King winces as it splashes across his face, drips down to the corner of his mouth and peters out in hot, thick spurts high on his chest to pool between his collarbones and slide further down. He brings his knees up to give Ram some support, enthralled as Ram keeps trying to get more, torn between rocking back on King’s cock and thrusting into the tight curl of his hands. 

“S-so- _hah!_ \- sorry,” Ram groans after a heartbeat, and King gasps as he realizes he himself has been totally silent for the past few minutes.

Ram is _still_ coming, a slow drip that leaks out with every time he grinds forwards, and King is loathe to let go while he so obviously needs the grip he’s got on him. “Hey, no,” he reassures as best as he can without touch. “You’re doing great, Ram. I’m fine. You’re doing so good.” Praise, he knows, has always been Ram’s weakness in bed, the one thing now he’s actually sure Ram likes. “You’re a good boy.”

He’s trembling still when he curls over top of King, adjusting just enough to let King pull out before he too gets overstimulated. “Sorry,” he repeats huskily, steadier now as he digs his teeth into King’s throat. It’s just a light press, but King still quickly fumbles to wipe his hands off on the sheets, trace soothing palms up Ram’s back. 

“Don’t be,” he reiterates. “I’ll tell you if I can’t handle it, I promise. You’re doing _so good_.”

Even without the knot actually tying them, King swiftly figures out that this, too, is part of the process. Ram scents him like it’s necessary anyways, keeps him flat on his back and firmly held down whenever King gives an experimental squirm. He nips at already favored patches of skin, renewing love bites that have started to fade and finding places to give new ones. He rubs his cheek over every mark he creates, tilting his head after to breathe in his own scent he’s leaving with deep and even inhales that make King tingle in the wake of it. It’s unexpectedly possessive, and King has to blink back a weird, lull like haze that settles in his brain a few times. Proper alpha Ram, his mind reminds him, pleased and stunned all at once. Proper alpha Ram, who clearly has been wanting to claim him like this and hasn’t had the chance to.

King purrs himself, struck mute by the sheer ferocity of his own ardor for a long moment. Ram seems fine with it though, because he answers the sound with one of his own, eyes shining as he starts nibbling his way down King’s chest, lapping up some of his own mess as he goes. “Hey,” King scolds, sitting up to stop him. “Don’t do that, hotness aside, you’ll get sick.”

Ram levels him with a rather put-upon stare, but obligingly moves aside as King reaches to find the stack of towels he’d placed on the nightstand before he’d left. He cleans himself up, properly, while Ram finds that his back isn’t nearly as peppered with the imprints of his teeth as he’d like and gets to work. 

Curiosity, again, gets the better of King as he tosses the ruined towel aside. Ram’s biting at that spot on the back of his neck, the one that instinctually threatens to make him go limp if he gives in to it, but he lacks the pressure to goad King into that. “What are you doing?”

The answer is quicker than he expected, a low and heady rumble of, “ _Mine_ ,” breathed out across his spine. 

_Oh_.

He’s hard again already, although when King mulls it over, he’s not actually sure Ram flagged much at all, and the next time he presses his teeth into King’s skin he can feel it dragging across his ass. Ram huffs when he whirls to roll them over, smirking when King pins him down beneath him, legs already parted. “Tell me what you want,” King encourages, though he knows Ram is probably struggling with voicing his needs right now. He has to hear it anyways though, an almost vicious desire coiling in him as he takes in the ragged rise and fall of Ram’s chest beneath his hands, the feverish pink that’s still present on his cheeks. 

“You,” Ram manages, and King almost scolds him for being _cheeky_ before he follows it with, “you. King, _inside_.”

“Good boy,” King says around a growl of his own. 

He doesn’t often get to take Ram like this, though he suspects now that was, again, because Ram was holding back. This time he drives the motion of the ocean, Ram’s legs tight around his waist and his hands clawing at King’s shoulders. Ram is just as eager, just as breathlessly blissed out on his back as he was while riding him, and King is _fucking enthralled_. “Look at you, good boy,” he pants brought abruptly close to the edge as he watches Ram’s back bow on the next thrust, hears him gasp along the wavering notes of an outright moan. He barely gets a hand around Ram in time, squeezing his fingers over the knot as Ram spills in twitching shudders across his own stomach, face buried in the crook of King’s neck. 

“You too,” Ram says as soon as he seems to get the breath to. “King, you too. Inside.”

Good. Fucking. _God_. “I’ll be out of commission for awhile if I come now,” King reminds softly. “I don’t have your stamina, sweetheart.” He really doesn’t. Ram is practically, if not literally, insatiable right now. And at the end of the day, King is still just a beta.

Ram shakes his head against him though, thighs squeezing around King’s waist to keep him where he is. “ _King_ ,” he pleads, and it escapes him as an unrestrained growl.

King sighs and noses at Ram’s shoulder, presses a kiss there. “So demanding. Alright. But you have to give me time to rest after, okay?” He doesn’t get any sort of affirmative on that, but King trusts Ram regardless, and he’s practically thrumming under the skin at this point with his own desire to please. 

It doesn’t take much. He’s already been on the edge twice now, and when he pulls Ram’s hips up higher, grinds in deeper, he digs his own teeth into the curve of Ram’s shoulder as he comes. To his delight, Ram sighs, affected, and unwinds his arms from King’s shoulders enough to tilt his neck and- _oh_. King inhales sharply as he recognizes what Ram is doing for him, his body taking stock of it before his mind remembers. It’s one of those old motions, an intrinsic display born on nothing but instinct and the sort of thing they’re doing now. “Ram,” King breathes, shocked, half hoping that the exclamation will break Ram out of it. But all it does is make Ram blink clouded, but assured eyes at him, his gaze almost a glare when he does.

Cycle inebriation isn’t total, King knows. It’s more like cut restraints, a release of things held back to display the actual wants and needs hidden under the day to day life. And the way Ram is looking at him now, despite the obvious haze, is unquestionably steady. It’s the same look he used to give King when he’d grab his wrist and drag him around half the campus, dark, unwavering, blatantly calling him stupid without words. King is both horny and affronted under it. “I just don’t want to do anything to you you’ll be mad about later,” he whispers, just in case. 

Ram huffs and tilts his neck aside further, baring his throat for him totally. Proper alpha Ram, King thinks, delirious as he leans into to sink his teeth into the offered skin. Proper alpha Ram who is quivering to be marked in turn.

King holds the bite until Ram goes lax in his arms, increases the pressure until he feels that telltale, enamored and satiated purr against his tongue. “Ram,” he teases when he pulls back. “You’re giving me such mixed signals.” Ram stares at him, half-lidded and pliant to the point that King can’t help but coo and nuzzle their noses together. “My good boy, I can never tell with you. Do you want to pin me down and wreck me or _be_ pinned down and wrecked?”

He’s not too surprised when Ram slurs out a sleepy, content, “Both.”

“Mm,” King agrees, grinning. “Alright. But you should be a little more vocal about when you want the former. You’re always so careful with me,” he chides. “You don’t need to be. I’ll let you know if I can’t handle something.”

“Kay.”

This is the rut haze for sure, King thinks, as exasperated as he is fond. Ram blinks up at him with his usual expression, just this side of deadpan enough for King to read with practiced ease, but his purr is what really gives him away. It’s so _loud_ , almost unabashedly so to the point where King is fairly sure that Ram hasn’t even noticed. “Is this okay?” King asks, needing to hear it said aloud even though he can _feel_ how happy Ram is. “Am I doing a good job here? Keeping you satisfied?”

Ram blinks, quiet for a long heartbeat as if he’s processing the question through the fog. “King is a good boy, too,” he replies slowly, canines visible in the smirk he gives, fully aware by the hitch in King’s breath that he’s going to be devoured the second King gets a second wind.

Cheeky, King decides. And _mine_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are always adored!
> 
> Next up is the much asked for MekBoss chapter. Rejoice!


	10. Sunrise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bohn is cursing under his breath, and Boss tries not to hyperventilate as he hears the telltale sounds he knows by instinct of Sun sniffling. "I don't know why someone didn't call you before," Bohn says testily, the way his voice is muffled suggesting he has the phone tucked between his ear and shoulder. "But Sunny has a god damn black eye."
> 
> Boss's heart drops. "What?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you didn't happen to pick up on it before (and if you didn't, no big deal), Boss and Mek’s child, Sun, does not have a primary gender. Just like babies in real life can be born intersex, or children and adults can identify as nonbinary, so too in a logical a/b/o where primary gender is determined by scent in infants would there be kids who don't fall into either category of the binary. Sunny uses they/them pronouns by default, though if they choose they can use different ones later. In this universe, Tang also does not technically have an assigned primary gender, but uses he/him pronouns as per his own wishes. 
> 
> Also, since Mek’s actor, Ryan, is Chinese, I've chosen a few Chinese words to be used here. Sun calls Mek "Baba" which is "father" and both Mek and Boss use "baobao" for Sun, which is "baby."
> 
> And for the sake of context of where BohnDuen is at during this short, this one takes place only a few months after They Say Grief Has Five Stages.
> 
> Anyways, on with the short!

Getting a call from Bohn while he’s at work is something Boss has been dreading ever since the offer was made for Sun to get after school care with him. Classes let out a full three hours before Boss' shift ends, so making the decision to leave his child in the care of a close friend was easy. In fact, it was almost too easy. Bohn is a natural with kids, and even when Sun had been upset to realize their phorh wasn't coming to get them from school, Bohn had managed to soothe them with quick assurances and enough snacks and cuddles that Sun was actually almost reluctant to leave when Boss came by to take them home. At this point the kid basically lives there part time, as comfortable now in Bohn’s territory as they are in their own house. And Boss normally doesn't worry at all while he finishes up his days at the office.

But that's mostly because _Bohn has never called him at work_. Not once. Never. If Sun gets a little scrape while playing, or seems a bit under the weather, its reported to him when Boss picks them up. _Not while he's at fucking work_. 

So Boss stares at his phone, heart in his throat while it rings, knowing that Bohn wouldn't call him for anything short of an _emergency_.

He picks up and barely manages a quick, choked, "What’s wrong?"

Bohn is cursing under his breath, and Boss tries not to hyperventilate as he hears the telltale sounds he knows by instinct of Sun sniffling. "I don't know why someone didn't call you before," Bohn says testily, the way his voice is muffled suggesting he has the phone tucked between his ear and shoulder. "But Sunny has a god damn _black eye_."

Boss's heart drops. "What?"

"Yep," Bohn growls. "It's not pretty. I'm taking them to the clinic to make sure their cheek bone isn't fractured. The thing is _purple_ , Boss. I have a lawyer, and I'm gonna tear their teacher a new asshole. Who the fuck doesn't call a kid's parents when they get beat up?"

Beat up. Boss sits there, dazed as it sinks in what Bohn is saying. _Beat up_. Sun has been . . . "I'll meet you at the clinic," he says thickly, distantly. 

"Yeah, you probably should," Bohn sighs. Boss hears more muted swearing, the sounds of someone trying to wrangle three kids into the car, and he picks up the first notes of Day crying, too. "Won't tell me what happened," Bohn mutters. "Hopefully they'll talk to you."

Yeah, Boss thinks numbly. Hopefully.

~~~***~~~

As much as Boss loves Sun, they've always been closer to Mek. It's the silence, he thinks, the habitual calm and quiet that's apparently genetic. Sometimes, they'll just look at each other, father and child, and Boss would swear an entire conversation is conducted in eye contact alone. 

But Mek is still at work, halfway across town, and Boss doesn't want to incite any more panic than necessary. Mek was bullied as a kid, Boss knows, he'll be devastated once he learns his child might be getting the same treatment. 

Sun is still sniffling when he gets there, teary-eyed but not quite crying, and their entire right eye and half their cheek is mottled black and blue. Boss can't help the noise he makes when he sees it, a strangled, injured sort of sound even though he's not the one hurt. "Sunny," he gasps, stepping forward to cradle his child's face as gently between his hands as he can. "What happened?"

To his dismay though, Sun just blinks at him, lower lip wobbling stubbornly, and does not answer.

"We can always inquisition the teacher," Bohn says ruefully from where he's sitting in one of the exam room chairs, Day balanced in his lap and Bee scrunched up at his side. " _Someone_ must have seen something."

Boss gives him a look he hopes conveys that he feels the same, too distracted for much else as Thara strides into the room. "Ouch, kiddo," he says, stepping into their space, glasses pulled out of the breast pocket of his coat as he peers down at the bruise. "Got into a fight, huh?"

Sun, unsurprisingly, says nothing. 

Thara carefully takes over where Boss' hands were, tilting Sun's face into the lamplight he pulls closer. "I'm going to press down on a few places," he says, and Boss winces at the thought. "Can you say 'ouch!' if it really hurts?" His touch is feather light, to Boss' surprise, thumb skimming across the bruise under Sun's eye. He goes over it twice along the cheek bone, but receives no response, and after a moment pulls back with a smile. "Just bruised," he proclaims. "I'd keep an eye on it anyways though, make sure there isn't any extra swelling. I'll send you home with a pamphlet of signs to look for in case of a concussion, but I would be impressed if an elementary schooler could hit that hard, honestly. Just some ice and rest, and they'll be fine."

Boss has never been so relieved in his _life_ , which is saying a lot. 

Of course means that Thara follows it up with clapping his hands together and saying, way too chipper, "Alright! N'Bohn, why don't you let everyone pick lollipops and stickers while I talk to N'Boss in the hall for a second."

Bohn gives him his best pitying stare as Boss lets himself be steered out into the hall. Really, he’s not sure what he expects when Thara takes a step back to look at him, but it isn't to be handed a single sticky note with a list of book titles scribbled onto the yellow paper. "Uh," he croaks, befuddled. 

"A lot of kids don't talk about what happens to them at school," Thara says quietly. "They're often ashamed and embarrassed, assuming the bullying is somehow their fault, and sometimes they're even afraid that their parents might end up seeing them the same way their antagonizers do if they come forward about it." He taps the sticky note Boss is now clutching in his hands like a lifeline. "These books are good, they list all the little signs you can look for to see if the bullying continues, and have some talking points you can try if it does persist."

"Thank you," Boss whispers, voice cracking. 

Thara just nods. "It's no problem. If it keeps up though, and Sunny still won't talk, come see me again so we can discuss counseling."

Boss' stomach twists, but he ignores it, giving Thara a hasty wai before skittering back into the room. Sun is still sitting on the exam table, legs kicking back and forth, but face slightly more content now that they have a lollipop stuffed into the unbruised cheek. Boss is more than a little relieved when his seven year old reaches for him when he approaches, happy to be scooped up and held despite how big they're getting. "Let's go home," Boss murmurs into their hair, unsure whether to be gladdened or devastated when Sun nods against him. 

~~~***~~~

"Are we bad parents?"

He asks it in the dark, the way all the worst questions tend to be voiced, his head pillowed on Mek’s chest, a hand white knuckled in his husband's tank top. 

Mek’s breath hitches, but he otherwise stays quiet for a long, long moment. "No."

Boss closes his eyes. It's too simple an answer, yet somehow rings so weighted and sure all the same. "What if they really are being bullied?" He whispers. "Sunny already doesn't talk a lot, they'll never say if they are. What do we do if they won't tell us?"

It hurts to think that, to know. 

"Don't . . ." Boss shudders as the word escapes him, too tellingly wet, and Mek’s arm tightens around him, a barrier against an oncoming storm. "Don't they trust us?"

"Sun trusts us," Mek soothes. He rolls over while he says it, gathers Boss up in his arms and tucks his face to his shoulder, carding slow and steady fingers through his hair. "Of course Sun trusts us. But I . . ." 

He hesitates, and Boss takes a moment to rub the heel of a hand over his eyes to try and stall the tears. "What? What is it?"

". . . I don’t think Sun is being bullied," Mek murmurs. 

Boss blinks, so caught off guard by both the words and how sure Mek sounds that his mind goes blank for a second. "Huh?"

Mek shakes his head, "Don't worry about it too much, okay? Sun is a good kid, a good kid with _good parents_ ," he assures, fierce in a way Boss isn't used to. His arms tighten around him as he says it, squeezing until Boss can't help but sigh and relax against him, his disquiet lulled into something softer as Mek presses a kiss to the shell of his ear. "They'll tell us what's going on when they're ready."

Boss hopes to god he's right.

~~~***~~~

The second time it happens, Bohn doesn't call him. He waits till Boss comes to pick Sun up, face grim as he pulls him aside and away from where the kids can be seen clambering over the swing set in the backyard through the wide glass doors. "Sunny has a split lip," he says. 

Boss stares at him, lost for a heartbeat until he finds the brainpower to answer a hoarse, "What?" just like the last time. 

Bohn looks guilty. "I didn’t want to call you away from work again," he says. "Especially because Sunny wasn't crying. But they flinched back when I tried to take a better look at it." He swallows. "I'm really worried."

Flinching, Boss remembers with muted horror, was one of the signs the books Thara told him to get said to look for.

He sits Sun down on the counter of the bathroom when they get home, where the lights in the small room let him see the extent of the damage the best. To his dismay, Sun does flinch when he gets a thumb on their bottom lip, and winces when Boss gently pulls it down to reveal a harsh, bloody line where their teeth must have dug into the skin inside when they were hit. "Baobao," he whispers, "what happened?"

Still, Sun doesn't answer.

However, they do climb into their parents' bed that night, tucking up between them before making grabby hands for the tablet Mek is holding. "Can I order some books?"

Boss tries not to read over Sun's shoulder as they peruse Amazon, painstakingly typing what they're looking for on the touchscreen. Kids should have privacy too after all, but he figures that if Sun really didn't want them to know, they would find some other means to acquire what they're after. They are, at times, alarmingly smart for being only seven. Sun picks out two books on martial arts, and another two on sign language, and passes the tablet back to Mek. "Thank you, Baba."

They don't discuss it, not with Sun snuggled between them, content in the depths of the night with their slow and sleepy inhales and exhales, but Boss can see Mek’s quiet confusion clear as day, anyways. 

He strokes a hand over Sun's back, a thoughtful frown on his face, the last thing Boss sees before he too sinks into sleep far easier than expected with the day behind him, warmed by the presence of his husband and baby curled against him. 

The third time it happens, Bohn calls him at work again, voice thick as he says, "Sunny has a black eye again. And-" his breath hitches audibly, twisting something visceral in Boss's gut. "And Bee-" another hitch, harsher. "Bee has split knuckles. I think-"

Boss doesn't let him finish, quick assurances falling from his lips because there's no way. There's just _no way_. Even if Bee has gotten a little rowdy by age ten, she would never hit Sun. They've grown up together. They love each other. 

Right?

This time, he does call Mek, frantic in his need to be backed up in this. Bee would never. And Sun certainly wouldn't hide that. He’s sure. He’s so sure.

They end up sitting around Bohn’s kitchen table. The kids are outside with Thara on the porch, the eldest two getting examined in the comfort of home while Day sits silently by. Duen has his head in his hands across from them, and Bohn is ghostly pale. Boss remembers, suddenly, how hard this year has already been on them. 

"I don't think Bee did it," he tries again, Mek squeezing his hand as he does. "She's such a good girl, she _loves_ Sunny. She wouldn't punch them, let alone bully them."

Duen shakes his head. "She's been quiet, too," he admits, choked. "I thought she was just bothered by what was happening with Sun, or maybe that she'd seen something and didn't know how to tell us. But now . . ."

Bohn doesn't add anything, he just looks _sick_. 

"Bee isn't at fault," Mek says, as sure when he speaks as he was when he’d suggested that Sun wasn't actually being bullied at all.

Boss swallows around a sudden, rising flare of doubt. He'd been so certain before. But once was a coincidence, three times is a pattern. "Let's just keep an eye on things," he suggests softly to the whole table. "Talk to the kids individually. Day too," he adds after a pause, something prickling at the back of his mind. Sun had bought those books on signing, maybe Day knows what his sibling and friend won't say.

It yields no results though, and Bohn calls him late that night, frustrated and raw sounding, and Boss aches to think he's been crying. "I don't think I should be taking care of Sunny anymore," he says wetly. "If Bee is . . . If Bee is hurting them, they shouldn't-"

"It's not Bee."

"You don't know that!" Bohn snaps. "None of the kids will say anything! What if Bee-" Boss can make out Duen in the background, a steady sound of, " _Hey, no, phi, no-_ " that breaks Boss' heart to overhear. "What if Bee got all the worst parts of me?"

Boss lets him hang up, nauseous by the visceral agony in Bohn’s voice as he’d said that. He knows, he was there, what Bohn was like at times, back in university. But that was just faculty hazing. He'd never hit or hurt anyone, and they'd all been in on it too. If that sort of thing is genetic, then Sun is just as liable, just as likely. 

"Am I a bad parent?" He asks again, tearing up as Mek nuzzles into his back, murmuring reassurances Boss isn't sure he believes anymore.

~~~***~~~

The fourth time, Boss is actually there.

At Bohn’s request he starts reluctantly using his vacation time to get off from work early to pick Sun up from school. It’s just a temporary solution, hopefully, until they can either figure out what's going on or, god forbid, find new and permanent childcare for them. 

He exits his car to the sounds of a hissing, spitting fight. 

Bee is only a few years shy of presenting, old enough to be able to work up a truly wicked growl when upset, and it rings out across the parking lot. She's crouched over where Boss can see Sun kneeled on the sidewalk, their hands over their head, and he has one lingering, horrified second where he fears Bohn was right before she whirls around and _launches_ herself at a group of kids closer to her age that are standing nearby.

They scatter, hollering as she manages to tackle one down, and then the rest converge on her to try and rip her off as she whales on the one she's caught. Boss starts towards them, scanning for teachers because surely _someone_ else has noticed what's going on. It’s then that he sees Sun stand back up, dust off the knees of their pants, and aim a flying kick at the back of one of the older kids' legs that sends them crashing down onto the sidewalk. 

And where they were kneeling before, Boss's heart lurches to see Day, shaking with his hands covering his face.

He's across the parking lot in the next second, scooping the five year old up into his arms. "Someone!" He yells, "Someone help!"

Unsurprisingly it's Bohn who appears, red faced and _fucking livid_ as he reaches into the fray and tugs Bee out by the back of her shirt, pushing her close enough for Boss to grab before he does the same to Sun. The group of kids that aren't theirs try to bolt, but he gets a free hand around one of their arms, immune when the boy starts hollering. "Any of you run," he growls, half snarling and unmistakably seething, "and I will make this one spill every damn bean in his body about who was here and what the fuck you assholes have been doing to my kids."

It's such a vague, nonsensical threat, and Boss isn't sure he should be swearing at what looks to be a bunch of eight or nine year olds, but he decides to shut up and watch this play out. For fun. 

They get all the kids inside the school office, all _nine_ of them, Boss is horrified to note. The fight had been six on three. And Bohn stalks off to call his lawyer, who arrives in record time, bright eyed and bushy-tailed despite how the case before him involves a bunch of kids and, from where Boss is standing, quietly furious, some serious mentor malpractice. 

He pulls Bohn aside while the lawyer gleefully reads off a list of lawsuits to a silent grouping of the principle, and all the teachers of every kid involved. Boss notes with distaste that the kindergarten instructor looks particularly disinterested. "New school?" He asks.

"New _district_ ," Bohn spits. "I'll drive them an hour both ways if I have to. I can't _fucking believe_ Day was being bullied to the point that-" he chokes, and Boss takes both his hands to tug him further away, just so the kids don't see. "I- I was already so-" Bohn says around heaving breaths, "- _terrified_ that this would happen. I know he still doesn't say much," he sobs. "But Day signs _perfectly_ , and he’s getting better about talking. His fucking teacher told me he'd fit in _fine_ , and she's been letting a bunch of third graders try and punch _my_ _baby_. If Sunny and Bee hadn't-" The noise he hiccups on is so palpably _wounded_ that Boss hurts just to hear it.

"New school," he assures softly, squeezing his friends hands in his. "New district if we have to. For all three of them. I'll take more time off work, and we'll go around and do interviews and tours, bring the kids with us, so we can be sure they're going to be treated fairly. _All of them_ ," he reiterates.

~~~***~~~

The house is oddly quiet that night during dinner. Boss briefs Mek about what happened over text, to keep from having to repeat it anywhere Sun has to hear. They discuss, wordlessly, what to say. 

As always though, Sun sort of forces their hand. "Am I in trouble?" They ask, hushed, dinner still mostly untouched.

Mek had always been the private type, his affections doled out away from potentially prying eyes, and that extends to everyone he loves. The speed at which he scrambles to grab Sun out of their seat though, scoop them up and hold them close in the safety of their home, is impressive. "No, baobao, _no_. We're so _proud_ of you."

It's only then, securely held in their father's arms, that Boss sees Sun finally cry. It's not a lot, nowhere near weeping, by any means, but they still bury their face in Mek’s shoulder, shuddering on every inhale until the fabric of the shirt they're clinging to is damp. Mek rubs their back through it, purring quietly. It takes a few minutes, Boss watching, his heart heavy in his chest, only to be startled as Sun turns in Mek’s grip to reach for him, too. Boss takes them readily, relief in his very bones as Sun wraps trembling arms around his neck. "I'm proud of you too," Boss assures thickly. "Sunny, I'm so proud."

"They called him names," Sun whispers at his shoulder. "I don't even know what some of the words they said mean, and Bee wouldn't let me look them up."

Boss can take a wild guess, and he meets Mek’s eyes to find equal disgust reflected back at him. "Just names?" He prompts.

Sun shakes their head. "N-no. They flapped their hands at him when he got flustered and tried to sign, they _made fun of him_. He was just trying to talk to them."

Another shared look, and Boss knows that whatever Sun says here, neither he nor Mek will be repeating any of to Bohn. It will break his heart, and he and Duen are struggling with more than enough right now as it is. 

"I told them to stop," Sun goes on shakily, "but they didn't. And then they pushed Day down, so I bit one of them."

Ah. The intrinsic, panic response of a kid. Boss struggles not to laugh at the mental image, proud and unnerved all at once at how quickly and viciously Sun's fight instinct had kicked in. 

"Is that what happened the first time you got hit?" Mek asks.

Sun nods. "Y-yeah. And the second time Bee was there, and she got everyone to run really fast. But I . . . I'm not good at fighting," he admits. Boss wonders if there's a way to change that, if only for Sun's comfort going forward. It can't hurt to have their kid learn some real self defense, right? As if reading his mind, Mek mouths, " _Ram_ ," which Boss replies to with a thumbs up around Sun's back. "I'm not good at signing either," Sun mumbles then. "I don't know everything Day says like Bee does. But I want to."

"That's really sweet of you, baobao," Boss praises, because it is. It melts his heart that Sun has not only been defending Day, but wants to know him better. 

"I want to," Sun says again, shockingly fierce for their size. "I _have_ to. We're gonna get married."

Uh.

"Um, what?" Boss squeaks, ignoring the way Mek is waving his hands at him to shut the hell up. 

Sun sits back a bit in his hold, just enough to look him in the eye as they repeat, with the same surety as the first time, "Day and I are gonna get married."

Boss stares at them, then at Mek, then at the ceiling before he says, "Baobao, you're _seven_."

"Not forever," Sun states blandly, as if their phorh is the weird one here. 

The side eye Mek gives the two of them speaks volumes, punctuated when he says cryptically, "I always wondered what they inherited from you. Now I know."

Fucking rude?

~~~***~~~

"So, I think we're gonna be inlaws," Boss says almost absentmindedly while they’re touring one of the schools. 

Bohn trips over nothing and almost falls on his face, sputtering in confusion the whole way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments as always are much loved!!!


	11. Rough Road, Long Nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If thirty-four makes me old, what does that make you?"
> 
> "Fine wine," Bohn answers without pause.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you all realize how many words/weeks it been since I wrote primarily happy and smutty BohnDuen? This is a crime that has now been corrected. Let my boys be happy!

Bohn has sort of always been unrepentantly horny, and that's just counting normal days. He did a really good job of hiding it when they first met, and Duen figured that was altogether easier when he was on hormone blockers anyways. But after that first heat spent together, he'd thrown off whatever had been holding him back, and basically cut loose into the totally insatiable monster Duen ended up marrying. And again, that's on _a normal day_. Duen doesn't consider heats in the category of Unrepentantly Horny, and he definitely doesn't regard Bohn’s pregnancy hormones under that title either. 

He can predict the day to day, keep track of heats, but Bohn’s urges when he's expecting always, always manage to catch Duen off guard. And, to his dismay, they often seem to border the line between dissatisfaction and actual discomfort. Like now, at half past one in the morning when he’s stumbling into their bedroom off the heels of a late shift, only to freeze in the doorway at the sight he's met with. 

Bohn is laying on his stomach on their bed, a tablet propped against the headboard playing something that Duen only skims his gaze over, noting the PornHub logo before he’s distracted by the low and heavy, desperate noise Bohn makes. He's completely naked, an arm tucked under his body as he fucks himself on three fingers that clearly aren't giving him what he needs. _Holy. Shit._

Duen closes the door again as slowly and quietly as he can, listening for it clicking into place before he fumbles behind his back for the lock. Bohn still hasn't noticed him yet, fixated on the muted video playing, and Duen manages to get all the way to the bed, one knee on the mattress, before he’s met with a startled, tear-pricked gaze. "Hey," Duen soothes as soon as his breath stops hitching. He reaches out, a hand finding Bohn’s cheek to thumb away a smudge of frustrated tears from his skin. "Phi," he murmurs. "You should have called me."

The glare Bohn levels him with is enough of a reply. And yeah, he’s right, running out of work to go fuck one's husband probably wouldn't fly, but _still_. Bohn is clearly distressed, dissatisfied, and for god's sake, they've only just passed that critical three month mark. The relief has barely settled, and a sharp and unsteady feeling still thrums in Duen’s chest every time he finds something he could, and probably _should_ , be doing for Bohn to make things easier on him. Sometimes, though he tries not to think about it, he fears not doing enough was what caused . . .

He shakes his head, shakes that treacherous thought right back out of his mind. "What do you need, phi?" He murmurs, leaning over Bohn to brush damp bangs from his eyes. He must have been at this awhile, and when Duen reaches to press a finger into him too, knocking their hands together, he’s sure Bohn hasn't come yet. He's way too tight, too tense. "Phi," he asks, sliding in a second digit as Bohn lets his own fingers slip free with a whine. "How long?"

"An hour, maybe," Bohn gasps, voice trembling. He rocks back onto Duen’s hand with a whimper, a sigh, but Duen can tell it isn't enough. "Thought I could finish before you got home. I know you're tired." His voice slurs a bit around the edges, just a little, and when he blinks at him over his shoulder, Duen doesn’t miss that he seems a little out of it. 

Duen cards his bangs back again, worried now that the flush to his husband's skin might be more than just the typical influx of pregnancy hormones, and is dismayed to feel a definite rise in his temperature. He doesn’t express his concern out loud though, keeps it trapped on his tongue as he quietly reminds himself that Bohn has increased oestrogen and progesterone right now, and that the same chemicals in his body that come from pregnancy also are the ones that flare up during his cycle. It's not unusual in the slightest, he just needs to keep track of his fever in case it spikes above the levels of what is, essentially, a miniature heat. 

It's fairly low grade, all things considered, he decides as he lets his hand fall away, uses it to fumble at his own belt buckle instead. Bohn watches him with half-lidded intensity, and Duen will never not delight in how his pupils dilate. He complains when Duen pulls his fingers out of him though, hoarsely swearing into the pillow while Duen reaches over him to take the tablet. "What were you watching?" He asks as he sets it aside, out of reach and out of mind. It's really only with vague interest that he spares it a glance, eyebrow raising as he notes the title declaring it as some kind of distraction kink clip compilation. Huh. 

"Hot doctors fucking," Bohn says, apparently with it enough to be _cheeky_. 

Duen rolls his eyes and gets a grip on his hips to coax him into rolling over onto his back. "You have a hot doctor at home," he reminds.

Bohn smirks, purring as he wraps his arms around Duen’s neck, tilting his throat in invitation. Duen obliges and pressed his teeth to the proffered skin. "Hmm. He’s getting old though. Maybe I'm in the market for a new model."

"If thirty-four makes me old, what does that make you?"

"Fine wine," Bohn answers without pause. He gets a slightly harsher bite for that one, the gifted mark making him gasp and jerk his hips where Duen still has them in his grip. " _Baby_ ," he pleads. "You're killing me here."

Duen really wants to make him work for it, beg, just for the sass, but Bohn is already desperate and aching, flushed and feverish with need, and more than anything Duen lives to please. "Alright," he soothes, leaning down to bite at the curve of Bohn's throat until he stills with another sigh, another high whine of discomfort. He’s already found purchase along the back seam of Duen’s button-up, twisting the fabric till it threatens to tear while Duen fumbles to undo the constraints of his slacks enough to pull himself free. "I've got you, phi," he assures as Bohn pants against his ear, buries his face into his shoulder. 

In theory, Duen largely prefers slower, gentler sex. Oftentimes though Bohn's needs, or even his own, don't really align with that. As much as Bohn obviously enjoys his affections, he's ultimately greedy, eager for pleasure as quickly and frequently as possible unless otherwise stated. And this definitely appears to be one of those times. So Duen has no qualms about skipping the foreplay, his only concern being how tense Bohn still seems, which is amended with a few short minutes of scenting, nipping, nuzzling, until his husband starts purring with vigor. "There you go, phi," he murmurs, praise easy and heavy on his tongue, smiling when Bohn’s audible contentment rumbles just a little louder. "I've got you. Let me know if you need something different, okay?" He encourages.

"Kay," Bohn whispers. "Are you gonna fuck me now?"

Case in point.

Normally, in situations like this, Bohn has a preference too. He tends to favor being taken on his front, pinned down to the mattress or whatever other surface is available to them at the time. But when Duen asks him to roll back over, knowing this, and receives a very vehement head shake in return, he can't help but pause. "Bohn?"

Bohn’s arms tighten around his neck. "This is fine. You can take me just like this."

Worry claws at him for a heartbeat, but Duen shoves it into the back of his mind. His purpose is here, now, providing what's asked of him. The causes can be mulled over later after Bohn is taken care of. 

He doesn't answer that request verbally, merely adjusting his position, settling more properly on his knees as he pulls Bohn’s legs up around his waist. Maybe, he thinks through the distant fog of his own arousal, slow and gentle is what Bohn actually needs today. This is good, Duen decides, this is perfect. 

They haven't had much time for this. The previous year was . . . Duen tries not to think about it too much. In the end, it's just a single bad year in a lifetime of good ones. But regardless, their sex lives had taken a pretty heavy hit during it, and the cycle in which they'd recently conceived had been so plagued by nervous energy it had been difficult to really enjoy. 

There's a certain sort of primal fascination with watching Bohn’s spine arch when he first presses inside. The dig of his heels at the small of Duen's back bunches up the shirt he's still wearing, and when he lifts his gaze from the attention he's relishing over Bohn’s neck and the underside of his jaw he takes in the bob of his adam's apple as he swallows around a poorly smothered groan. "Good?" Duen murmurs. He can't not ask, not when it's such a thrill for him to hear Bohn say it. He wants it to be good, wants to make sure that every time they come together like this Bohn enjoys it just as much as he does. It’s easy to read his partner’s pleasure before he gets the audible confirmation though, the flex of his fingers at Duen's shoulder blades, the sharp and staggered way he inhales, the hot, rippling clench of his body around Duen’s cock as soon as he's fully sheathed in him, they've been together too long for Duen not to know every little tell by heart. "Phi," Duen encourages. 

"Y-yeah," Bohn gasps. "S'good." He squirms a bit as he says it, gives in to that impulse to roll his hips, provide a little of the stimulation he's looking for himself. 

Duen stills him as soon as he does it, a firm hand under his ass and a gentle squeeze. "Impatient," he scolds. "Won't you let me take care of you?"

The growl that escapes between Bohn’s teeth isn't entirely unexpected. He’s frustrated, unsatisfied, and lurching more into that realm of pure instinct than not. Duen soothes that away too, a press of their cheeks together and a purr to contradict it. But he accepts the wordless admonishment regardless, and after Bohn settles into a more relaxed hold on him, Duen meets his still discontented glare with a smirk and snaps his hips. 

It earns the desired reaction. Bohn keens, hands clawing at Duen's shoulders for more solid purchase and his thighs squeezing at his sides. "Gorgeous, phi," Duen compliments, his own breath pitching around the words, husky and warm. Bohn shivers and blinks at him with glazed eyes for the brief moment before Duen sets a pace, and then he buries his face in the solace of the crook of his neck with a strangled moan. 

It sinks in all over again how long it's been since they've really had a chance like this, uninterrupted time for them that wasn't spurred on solely by cycle addled instincts. Duen treasures the current moment at the same time he mourns the missed opportunities. Bohn's fingers tangle in his hair at the nape of his neck after awhile, card up and tug, and Duen pulls back from where he was kissing at his throat to meet the demanding press of Bohn’s mouth to his. It's easy to let Bohn guide him, fire flaring in his chest and dancing around his heart as his husband kisses him as if he means to steal every soft and staggered sound Duen makes into his own lungs. It's always like this with Bohn. He kisses like it's that very first time all over again, grasps on with his hands in Duen’s hair, or at his shoulders, and surges against him so fiercely it's as if that long ago and temporary fear of being parted never quite abated. The intensity of it always roars through Duen, startles him for a second like it’s new even when it isn't, and leaves him panting for breath when Bohn deigns to even give him the room to breathe. 

The want of world travel, of far flung places and sights is so universally longed for it has its own word: wanderlust. But Duen often finds himself yearning for moments like this instead; homespun threads in time and tied to fingers and hearts where the greatest thing he could ever want is that frozen second where he stops gifting adorations across Bohn’s skin and pauses to find the love of his life looking back at him in turn, eyes honeyed with eternal affection, captivated by each other in equal measure even after all this time. 

Thirty-six is still so young, he thinks dizzily, closing the distance again to tilt Bohn’s face back to his, punchdrunk like he’s nineteen by just a kiss, a touch, a roll of their bodies together. It's so young, and the thought of the decades left ahead of them makes him ache to linger even more in every chance he has that tastes just like this. "Phi," he purrs, nuzzling at the scent glands in Bohn’s neck. "Phi, I love you _so much_."

It's one of those things that slips your mind now and then, when the months and years seem shorter because you have a few dozen of them behind you already. And their love is so constant, palpable in everything about them, that they forget to say it out loud sometimes. Duen tries not to lapse too much, but it always rings more true when it's utterly overwhelming, when that deep seeded joy and ardent devotion bubbles up of its own accord simply because it can't be contained in a single body, and is meant to be shared. 

Bohn doesn't reply at first, but when Duen peeks at him from the corners of his eyes he's not surprised to find his fondness reflected back, wet at the edges with tears he knows will be denied later. "Yeah," Bohn chokes, burying his face against Duen’s shoulder to hide it. "Love you, too."

~~~***~~~

Bohn’s mini heats during pregnancy aren't exactly new, but Duen is a bit concerned to quickly find that they're definitely more frequent. It's not an observation made lightly, either, not when just a day after the previous instance, he bumbles sleepily into the shower in the morning to find the water shockingly cold, and Bohn flushed and frustrated again beneath it. 

"Fuck!" Duen hisses, twisting the water off with alarm. He tugs Bohn against his body, wary of letting him slip on the tile as he pulls him back from the waning spray and close. His skin is _icy_ even with his obvious fever, and Duen hisses in sympathy. "You're going to get hypothermia," he chides, trying not to think about the lasting effects that could have on him or, god forbid, the baby.

He gets Bohn back into the bedroom without struggle or fuss, flattens him down on the mattress beneath the warmth of the blankets and his own body. "Why didn't you wake me?" He whispers once he's satisfied that Bohn’s shivering isn't bordering on dangerous. 

"You have work."

"Yes," Duen agrees steadily, "but _you_ are more important than _any_ job I could ever have." He flattens a palm over Bohn’s abdomen after only a second of hesitation, a wordless reminder that they’re _both_ important. 

Bohn scoffs, but doesn’t shrug out of his arms or away from his hand. "Hello yes, Thara? I'll be late to work because my husband is a horny motherfucker."

"Please never say my cousin's name while we're naked in bed together ever again," Duen deadpans. "Also, yes. If I'm late that's pretty much going to be exactly what I tell him." The face Bohn makes conveys such a mixture of horror and concern that Duen can’t not laugh, burying a snicker in the other man's sternum. "It's fine," he assures. "Really, phi. It is. It's a medical thing, so-"

The way Bohn’s gaze instantly shutters tells him he misspoke, and Duen’s mouth snaps shut around the explanation as he’s leveled with a truly pissed glare. "Oh. So you're just fucking me because you _have to_. Fantastic," Bohn spits, squirming to get out from under him. "Good to know. Only took like six years and some change for marriage to kill that, I guess."

Duen pins him back down before he can wiggle very far away, let alone out from under the warmth of the blankets. His skin is still chilled, textured with goosebumps and pink where the blood is trying to reheat his body, and he shivers when Duen gets his arms around his middle and holds him firm. "Just because it's something you need doesn't mean I don't enjoy it," Duen reminds, "or that I don't want to be with you like that. If anything, it's a convenient excuse for spontaneity when we usually have to pre-plan everything." 

Bohn had managed to roll onto his stomach when trying to storm off, and he tilts a rueful, narrow-eyed stare over his shoulder when Duen finishes talking. It's not distrust, exactly, so much as old and well-worn doubt that has more to do with how Bohn sees himself than anything else, Duen knows. "You're sure?" He asks slowly, as if each syllable is measured on the tip of his tongue before he speaks it. 

"Positive," Duen returns without letting the question hang to stale the air for even a moment. He kisses Bohn’s shoulder as he says it, and after a second of thought sets his teeth to the spot as well. It elicits the response he expected, a shiver that's from more than just the cold. Duen turns it over in his mind, trying to count back the days to figure out how long it's been since he’s given Bohn a proper, thorough marking, and finds to his dismay that it's been _awhile_. "Phi," he purrs, rubbing his cheek over his husband's neck until he can tell by the thrum of his heart through his ribs where they’re pressed together that he has his attention. "Let me mark you?"

The answer is _immediate_ , the rumbling purr of reply sharp in its abrupt intensity. The tense lines of Bohn’s body beneath him uncoil in a rush, his forehead hitting the mattress with a staggered exhale. "Y-yeah. That'd be really good, actually."

When they'd conceived again, everything felt like too much. Duen had fretted, after he'd noticed his own almost constant need to scent his mate after he caught a trace of that intoxicating, enceinte smell, was overbearing. He'd tried to keep it light, most of the time, the instances where he did give in to the instinct self mandated to be shorter, sparser. He was _terrified_ of _anything_ tipping that fragile scale. Now, he wonders if he'd done too little. The way Bohn goes lax under him at the first pressured bite on the back of his neck certainly says so, as does the breathy sigh that escapes him, the clench of his fists in the sheets that give away how affected he is. He doesn’t want to smother Bohn, but they’re past that hurdle of the first trimester now. Surely the extra attention wouldn't hurt.

"You can really bite me," Bohn whispers, fingers flexing in time with the request, the stutter it brings to Duen’s heart. "It's okay."

Concern flares in Duen’s brain again, thoughts muddled for a second with the dangers of potential infection before he squashes them down at the same speed with which they'd overtaken him. Fuck it. He’s a god damn _doctor_ , if he can't keep his own bites clean after he makes them he doesn't deserve the license. He pulls his mouth away just long enough to murmur, "Use your safeword if it's more than you can handle," and earn the affirmative nod he needs before he does as asked. Bohn releases a hoarse and ragged little noise as he sinks his teeth into the back of his neck, right where the skin is soft and thick, made exactly for this reason. It's entirely intrinsic the way with which he gets an arm around Bohn’s middle, hikes his hips up to grind against his ass as copper tints his taste buds.

"Perfect," Bohn gasps. He gets his knees under him properly, parts his legs, whimpering when Duen slides the head of his cock over the core of him. " _Fuck_ , baby come on, don't tease."

Luckily, Duen isn't really in the mood for delay, either. He does, however, delight in taking Bohn slowly, watching him bite down on his lower lip just a little harder with every centimeter that enters him. Duen lathes his tongue over the mark on his neck as soon as he’s completed seated inside. It takes more self control than he'd like not to just fuck Bohn into the mattress right then and there, a few deep breaths to clear his head, concentrated seconds of turning the growl that wells in him into a purr. He's not trying to fuck Bohn for the sake of pleasure, or at least not for his own; he's renewing his claim, his focus on the connection and the attention, the scent of them together and the proof he can leave of himself. "Shoulder?" Duen asks, his teeth already dragging along the skin by the time he’s finished speaking, merely waiting for permission. 

"You can do up to three," Bohn murmurs. His tone is low, slurred at the edges, and Duen shifts to nuzzle at the hinge of his jaw instead, purring even louder. _His_. All his. "Just make sure they're not too deep, baby," Bohn goes on. "I want to be sore, but not too sore."

"I'll be gentle," Duen assures, and he is. Technically, he's never bitten Bohn as deeply as he's capable of (though unfortunately the reverse can't be said, but Duen knows Bohn didn't mean it, had been scared and instinctively distressed). He keeps the marks shallow, the pressure enough to lightly bruise, draw a pinprick of blood, and nothing more. He licks away the smallest trail of it after his mouth leaves Bohn’s shoulder, kisses over the barely there punctures before rubbing his cheek across it until their scents permeate the air. "So good for me, phi," he praises, tilting his head the other way to nibble over his husband's neck. "Mine." _That_ rewards him with an actual moan, a tight flutter of muscles around his cock, and his hips jerk involuntarily. " _Fuck_ , Bohn," he groans.

"Yes. God, yes, do that," Bohn begs right off the heels of Duen’s own utterance. "Please. Please, please, please, _please_." 

"Wait." It's not an order, not really, which Bohn clearly knows because he answers it with a wiggle of his hips that Duen has to still and a responding, strung out whine. "Be good."

It's still not an order, but Bohn huffs and lets Duen press his front down against the mattress again. It's a good angle to work with, gives him access to Bohn’s back in all the best ways as he makes his way down his spine. He nuzzles over everything he can reach, each hitch of Bohn's breath punctuated with a dig of teeth or a bloom of adoration sucked into the skin. And yeah, maybe he's being a _little_ mean, holding Bohn still, keeping his cock hard and teasing inside him, but that's part of the fun, isn't it. 

Satisfaction curls in waves behind his ribs when he leans back to admire his handwork, the decorations displaying that Bohn has a home, a mate, a place to belong to. The fact that his husband is softly panting in his grip, lightly fever flushed and hazy eyed, lax beneath the lavished care speaks volumes. He’s still quivering a bit with desire, but it’s almost outweighed by the way he's kneading at the bed with his hands, the strength and absolute satiation behind every note of his purr. "Still want me to fuck you?" He asks, because sometimes this is enough. Bohn’s purr trills just a little louder, catching around a breath. Duen smirks. "Knot you?"

"Yes please," Bohn sighs. 

He's a bit overwhelmed already, Duen notes, every thrust resulting in an unmistakable, oversensitive mewl of a noise until Bohn stubbornly clamps his mouth shut, biting on his own lip and squeezing his eyes closed to stifle them. Duen doesn't know whether it would be rude, per say, to delight as much as he does in his partner’s mortification, so he keeps it to himself. Mostly. The growl that trembles out between his teeth probably gives him away though, especially once he punctuates it by latching his teeth into Bohn’s unmarked shoulder, pressing his front down further into the mattress to wring a truly glorious whine out of him at the new and sudden angle. 

Bohn’s legs are shaking, his breathing ragged, and Duen knows he’s close just by the heat of his body around him, the almost frantic way Bohn claws at the sheets to suddenly rock back onto him in time, trying to tip himself over that edge. He succeeds, choking on a string of profanities that filter into a drawn out, thick with relief and quaking, " _Baby_ . . ."

And really, Duen doesn’t need much more than that either. He untethers the growl he’s been holding back, as he hilts himself inside him, grinds and _grinds_ in shallow presses and jerks until the knot catches and holds. Normally, he’s not especially vocal during sex, but the moan that crashes out of him when he comes is _loud_ , enough so that he feels Bohn physically startle beneath him, a jolt that practically vibrates through him. Duen buries his face in the curve of his neck as he shudders apart, lips parted to take in the taste of how deeply he's twined their scents together, his heart thundering in his chest. " _God_ , Bohn," he gasps when he has the air in his lungs to do so. " _Fuck_."

Bohn is quiet for a few seconds, heaving around his own slightly steadier inhales and exhales before he whispers, "Too much?" Duen fiercely shakes his head against him, and Bohn swallows audibly before he reaches up to tangle fingers in his hair. "Baby, you sure?"

Duen nods, nuzzling further across Bohn’s throat over that still steady thrum of his purr. "Love you," he responds. "I just love you _so much_." His hand finds its favored spot along Bohn’s stomach as he says it, fingers splaying along the skin that's still soft, not yet swelled with the life beneath it. "Love you," he repeats. That's the only thing that's ever too much, the all consuming, all encompassing way in which that has never wavered.

And also, "Might have gotten a little dizzy, though," Duen admits to a burst of poorly muffled snickering from his partner.

" _Really_? Oh my god. Good to know I can still make you come that hard, I guess."

Duen bites him again. 

~~~***~~~

The look Bohn gives him when he’s presented with the toy is, to date, the most annoyed expression he's ever cast Duen’s way. Which is impressive. "I don't want this."

Duen sighs and ruffles a hand through his own hair. "Bohn. As much as I really do wish I could be here all the time, I can’t. And I'm worried about you, I don't want you to be . . . In _pain_ because of this. If you call me, obviously I'll do my best to come home as soon as I can, but until then," he points at the box.

Honestly, it's a rather decent model, Duen notes to himself. Bigger than him, at least a bit, and it even has a knot at the base that, while technically anatomically incorrect, is a good size to be taken without getting stuck unsafely. It seems fine, in his opinion. Hell, it's even flesh colored, a much better option than the pink and blue glitter infested galaxy swirls the salesman had shown him first. Plus, there's no way Bohn hasn't used something like this before, he spent almost seven years of heats alone _somehow_. 

Bohn shoves the box back towards him with a low growl that makes Duen tense. "I don't _want_ this."

"Bohn-"

"I'm not gonna knot myself with a fucking piece of plastic," he hisses. "That's not _the point_."

Technically it's silicone, Duen thinks, but keeps that to himself. "Phi," he tries, knowing full well he's being unfair by using the affectionate honorific. "You don't have to. But if your heat flares get bad, I hate to think that you're hurting when I can't be with you." 

Bohn levels him with a slightly more sobered, if still fairly pissed glare. "Fine. But joke's on you if you think this is what I want, or need. It's not going to do shit for me, Duen."

"Can you at least try?"

"Yeah. Sure. Fuck it. I'll 'try.'"

So it is that Duen isn’t _exactly_ shocked when he comes home a few days later to find Bohn doing just that. There must have been some kind of adhesive in the box too, or a really good suction cup or something, because he’s slapped the thing onto the flat wooden end of their bed and is riding it. Duen takes it in and glances at the clock on his phone's lock screen. Yeah, a quarter after ten in the morning does seem a tad too early, but he supposes he can't judge after taking a rare overnight shift. Quietly, he weighs his options as he pulls the door firmly shut behind him. On one hand, he did encourage this. On the other though, Bohn is almost certainly doing it, at this exact moment he knew Duen would be off work, out of _spite_. 

His suspicions are confirmed when he takes a tentative step towards the bed and spots that Bohn isn't just hanging his head because he’s trying to get a better angle, but because he has his damn tablet out again. He knows Bohn is aware he's here, he caught him glancing his way when he’d entered, so he forgoes subtlety when he comes up behind him, snags an arm around his middle, and snatches the tablet off the mattress. Bohn curses, tensing for a heartbeat before leans back against him, balanced precariously on his heels so that he doesn’t quite sink far enough down onto the dildo to take the knot. Huh. 

Duen tilts the screen towards himself, one eyebrow raised as he blinks at the sight of what's clearly an alpha doctor, sitting at her desk and taking a webcam conference call with the actual camera turned off, her omega partner in her lap. Distraction porn again, or so the title claims. Interest sparks low in his gut, an inkling curling in the corners of his mind. It's a thought for later though, because the moment he sets the tablet aside Bohn twists in his grip, lets the toy slide out of him with only the smallest gasp, and actually _tackles_ Duen over backwards onto the bed.

Holy _fuck_. Duen allows him, pliant as Bohn shoves him to where he wants him on the mattress and starts fumbling to undo his belt. His cheeks are crimson, and Duen murmurs low sympathies as he reaches up to brush his knuckles over Bohn’s forehead. It's not too hot, but it definitely has to be uncomfortable, and even without that telltale sign, the urgency with which Bohn practically rips the zipper off his pants says as much, too. "Phi," he whispers, because Bohn’s hands are _shaking_. 

Bohn ignores him though, too focused on his goal to listen to anything other than actual reprimand or denial. He's panting when he manages to pull Duen free of his slacks, barely pausing before he straddles him properly and sinks down. Duen hastily gets his hands on his ass, forces him to take it a little slower even though it earns him a growl. "Fuck you," Bohn says, trying for actual vehemence but falling disastrously short as the words hitch around a moan. "I c- _ah_ \- can't believe you got me that damn thing. It's like you have no idea what being mated means, you a- _ah, fuck!-_ asshole."

It's not often that Bohn uses his greater strength, the slight difference in size between them, like this, but Duen is _captivated_ every time he does. Bohn keeps him held down almost effortlessly with both hands braced to Duen’s chest, his knees squeezing around Duen’s hips as he rises, falls, grinds, and takes what he's so clearly been desperately aching for in his husband's absence. Duen is happy to oblige though, fixated on the way he can see Bohn’s muscles ripple whenever he finds a good angle, the bob of his throat around increasingly frequent whimpers. "Toys are fucking _useless_ ," Bohn pants as he nears his precipice. "We've been together for _fifteen years_. If you think that hasn't left its mark on me both inside and out, you're an- _hah_ , fuck, _fuck_!- an idiot."

Duen’s not sure whether to be flattered or offended, struck mute by the confession at the same time he’s nonplussed by the fact that Bohn comes while _insulting him_. He sits up while Bohn is still shaking apart, the hands pinning him trembling enough to go lax, and he gathers his partner into his arms to press an apologetic kiss to his cheek. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, "I know." And he did, sort of. It's not like the times he had to take rut suppressants weren't viscerally awful to try and ride out alone. It makes sense for Bohn to be loathe to do something similar. "I'll take some time off," he swears as Bohn wraps his arms around his shoulders and buries his face in his neck, sighing with satisfaction as Duen rolls his hips up into him, gets a little more of what he needs in the tight heat of his body for his knot to start swelling. 

To be fair, this does fall under family medical leave, but Duen hates using that time for anything other than necessity. This has dipped into that territory now though, and with the year behind them and everything that came with it, Duen feels like he's earned that right. "I'll get time off work," he reiterates. Two weeks, maybe a month if he can swing it. "I'll take care of you, okay? Let me take care of you, phi."

The breath Bohn takes when he nods hitches at the edges and rings distinctly with relief. 

~~~***~~~

Thara gives him the month in exchange for the agreement that he'll tune in for the district's weekly meetings in his stead. They're boring as tar and consist mostly of data analysis crap about patients, potential viral outbreaks, and then an hour or so of discussion on unusual cases in the area that Duen thinks is just an excuse for a lot of already ego-inflated doctors to brag. It's a small price to pay in the long run though, and Duen accepts without complaint. 

And it's not like the time off consistents of _only_ sex. That would be ridiculous. The kids are home after three on weekdays, and Bohn really only suffers two more mini heats before he settles down in that regard for the most part. He is, however, a _lot_ clingier than Duen expected. Most of their hours alone are spent curled up together on the sofa or in bed, Bohn more than content to just lull himself into a near doze, purring softly while Duen traces out incoherent shapes across his back or over his abdomen and chest. He's certainly not opposed, and as with their previous two pregnancies, Duen is obsessed with scenting him even moreso once he starts showing, hands framing the curve of the bump even though he knows the baby isn't quite big enough yet for him to feel. 

"Have you thought of names yet?" He asks one afternoon while the sun is passing its zenith, casting long shadows over the yard beyond the glass sliding doors. 

"Little soon to be thinking of that," Bohn whispers, and Duen _hates_ the rawness in those words, the underlying note of fear.

"I don't think so," Duen says before that unease can settle too heavily in the air, although Bohn is already a little tense in his arms. He traces a finger down his middle, over the bump, and presses a lingering kiss to his neck. "Just about halfway there and you're showing already," he hums. "It'll be fine. Look," he repeats the motion, this time with his whole hand, "it's going to be a big, healthy baby. Fat."

Bohn snorts. " _Chubby_ ," he corrects wryly. "And _cute_. Not fat."

"Hmm," Duen agrees with a smile. "Tell me the names you've thought of."

The response takes awhile to come, moments spent in silent solace where Duen doesn't pester him, just waits. "Dome if they're a boy, Dax if they're neither, and . . . Del if they're a girl."

"All chue lens," Duen remarks. "What about birth names?"

". . . I want you to pick the birth name," Bohn says after a pause.

Something painful, knowing, wraps thorns around Duen’s heart. "It's your turn," he reminds gently, "I chose Day’s chue len and birth name. I'll do the next one."

He knows, a lump in his throat, what Bohn is about to say before he even says it. Persistent heat flares are a sign of _stress_. "I don't think . . . I don’t think there will be another one," Bohn says thickly.

"Bohn . . . Are you sure?"

He has to ask. He has to. Bohn had once said, " _I think I'm good for_ **_at least_ ** _two more_." He has to be sure. 

His heart breaks, audibly he fears, when Bohn inhales shakily and says, "I don't think we can do this again." He wraps his hand around the one Duen has across his abdomen, twining their fingers together and squeezing. "You threw up five times _that I know of_ in the first three months you were so stressed out. And you're a notorious anxiety barfer," Bohn adds a little bitterly, "so I'm sure it was more, and that you just didn't tell me."

". . . It was eleven," Duen admits reluctantly. Eleven times that he'd bothered to count, at least. There might have been up to fifteen instances, but if it had happened while he was checking the locks, prowling the house, furiously cleaning and pacing and worrying, too focused on _protecting_ to care, he doesn’t remember. 

"I want more," Bohn confesses. He trips over it, his voice hoarse, and Duen tightens his arms around him. "But we're only halfway there and it's already been _so hard_. I constantly feel like I'm about to have a panic attack. I spend half the time the kids are at school while you're not here with Frong at the flower shop because I'm _terrified_ of something going wrong and being _alone_."

" _Bohn_."

He gives Duen’s hand another squeeze, fingers trembling. "The risks go up the older I get, and I'm already thirty-six."

"Thirty-six isn't old," Duen says fiercely. It's not. It really isn't. They have _so much time_.

"Reproductively, it's getting there," Bohn says. "And I know you know that, Doctor Rattananumchock." Duen wishes he didn't, suddenly, and he presses his face into the dip between Bohn’s neck and shoulder, shivering on an inhale that gives away how much this hurts. Bohn fumbles to tangle the fingers of his other hand in his hair, card them through. "I know," he agrees, every syllable wet with grief. "Me too. But I don't want us to suffer for it, baby. It's supposed to be _good_."

"Let's wait until they’re born, okay?" Duen pleads. "It'll get better. Isn't it better right now?"

"Yeah," Bohn assures. "Right now, it is. But those first three months were hell on both of us. And four kids is still a lot. We have a big family already, Duen," Bohn says, and Duen hates how much it sounds like a consolation, how Bohn winces because it must echo that way in his own ears as well. "Four is enough. I love them all more than _anything_ ," he squeezes Duen’s hand over his stomach a third time, a silent confirmation of _this one too_. "Four can be enough."

It won't be the last time Duen will find himself wallowing in quiet moments of regret over this, and he knows it likely isn't for Bohn, either. Thirty-six is _so young_. But in some ways, not quite young enough. "It's your choice," he says, kissing the words into Bohn’s shoulder. "Phi, I love you. I love our kids. But I just want you to be sure, okay? You . . . I know you think of our family like your job. It _is_ your job. And I know you did want more. But it's your choice. I want you to do what makes you happy. That's all I want."

It hurts. _It hurts_ to think of Bohn in their empty house, barely middle aged when their youngest will graduate. There should have been more. 

"I'm happy with you," Bohn says, and for now that's enough, comfort found together as Duen holds him tight, anchors them, a reminder that whatever the decision ends up being, they have each other at the end of the road. 

~~~***~~~

Duen can’t say he's even remotely surprised when Bohn interrupts his second from-home district meeting, he's sort of been giving hints about doing so _for weeks_ , and he's kept his webcam off since the first one in quiet anticipation of it. He doesn’t think anyone notices when he switches his mic off too, the other doctors are all quite a little bit older than him, and likely more technologically inept. Pretending not to see Bohn peeking into the room though is part of the game, and he plays off the shift of mousing over the mute button and settles more properly into his chair, a hand under his chin and his eyes fixed on the screen. 

He's not an idiot. One instance of being caught watching a particular type of porn is a passing interest, twice is _intentional_ and a definite sign, for Bohn at least, that it's on the table. 

And really, Duen could use a little distraction. They've talked circles around serious things for two straight days, slightly quieter futures made more permanent, and the idea of letting Bohn ride him while he sits through an already boring meeting is at this point a respite. 

Bohn is . . . Not as subtle as he probably thinks he is, and Duen bites his lip to keep from laughing as his husband shimmies under the desk from the other side and swears a bit too loudly when he bumps his head. Duen holds still though, keeps his hands above his waist instead of giving in to the urge to soothe fingers over the spot when Bohn settles his chin on one of his knees. 

It's immediately apparent that he's been considering this a lot, because in a very un-Bohn-like manner, he starts slow. A finger is trailed languidly up the right inseam of Duen’s pants, over his thigh until he presses the heel of his palm against the bulge beneath the fabric. Duen grips the armrests of his chair like they're the safety bar of a rollercoaster, inhaling sharply as Bohn thumbs at his zipper and settles more firmly between his legs. His eyes dart towards the screen in front of him, hastily double checking that his camera and mic are still turned off, the only indication of his continued presence in the conference call being his icon. Bohn’s eyes are dark, the shadow of the desk only making his already wide-blown pupils seem that much blacker, his irises just thin amber rings, and the second Duen makes the mistake of glancing down, locking their gazes, he can't look away. 

The smirk Bohn casts him when their eyes meet is borderline feral, smug in every facet, and Duen’s breath catches sharply as he flicks open the single button keeping him from his prize. "Be quiet, babe," he whispers, as if the mic isn't already muted, and Duen swallows so hard he almost chokes. 

He knows this isn't the end goal, but Bohn still makes a tantalizing sight on his knees for him like this, a thumb grazing over the head of Duen’s already well interested cock as he draws it out. His other hand, Duen notes with fresh and wild heat coiling in his gut, has dipped below the waistline of his own boxer briefs while he licks a long, wet stripe up the underside of the shaft. "Shit," Duen can’t help but gasp, nostrils flaring as Bohn smirks and draws his hand out to put a damp fingertip to his own lips. _Tease_ , Duen scolds internally. He lets a hand fall to card Bohn’s bangs from his forehead, an eyebrow raised in a manner he hopes conveys his own mounting urgency. 

Bohn has always been alarmingly quick at divesting himself of his own clothes, and with a little shimmy, wiggle movement he's chucked his underwear across the room and gotten a grip on Duen’s thigh to slide up from beneath the desk and into his lap. He casts the screen a look over his shoulder as he wraps his arms around Duen’s shoulders, and Duen doesn't miss the odd, absolutely possessive spark that flares in his eyes. 

"You know a bunch of old, grey doctors don't want to fuck me, right?" He says lowly, hands settling on Bohn’s hips to help guide him. 

"Shut up. You're ruining the fantasy," Bohn mutters. 

Duen doesn't comment that he’s not quite sure what the fantasy, or the appeal of this even really is. Something of his confusion must show on his face though, because once Bohn sinks down onto him, has enough breath again after a quiet, staggered gasp, he says, "At some point, they're going to ask you to chime in. And then you'll have to unmute the mic."

Fuck. 

"Don't be noisy," Duen warns, his voice pitching towards a growl. He's not even saying it for the sake of his job, but rather because the immediate, horrifying thought of _anyone_ other than him hearing Bohn moan has his hackles up. 

Bohn ducks his head, presses a kiss to his throat that Duen can feel curling at the edges. "I'll be good. But you have to stay still. Let me do all the work." Another kiss, a tantalizing drag of teeth, "Concentrate on your meeting."

Duen will very much _not_ be doing that, but he can pretend, at least. His hands tighten a little on Bohn’s hips, thumbs brushing the skin of his abdomen where it starts to curve. As per instruction he keeps his attention trained on the computer screen, at least on the surface. Every nerve in his body is alight though, lightning struck and pulling uneven breaths from his lungs. And Bohn is, unsurprisingly, not as silent as he very much tries to be. He’s definitely at least making an attempt though, Duen’s sure, but he keeps choking on tiny gasps, barely muffled and still pitched sighs, and when Duen shifts his grip down to his trembling thighs, tugs him a little further into him, he gets a full on, unrepressed whimper. 

Ah. So _this_ is the fantasy. Duen’s eyes find the screen again, surreptitiously checking the camera, the red image showing the mic is still turned off. He’s not very good at playing the part of the distracted spouse, but the element of danger, the thought that a wrong move could reveal them to his medical peers, definitely has him interested, if only because it draws a sudden and fiercely possessive growl from inside him. Part of it is definitely just instinctual, but there’s a tinge to it that doesn’t go unnoticed, a hint of legitimate and contemplated covetousness that has him tilting his head to bite a fresher mark in the line of Bohn’s throat. It’s not enough to draw blood, but it’s more than pressured to the point where Bohn keens, thighs squeezing around Duen’s sides on the downstroking roll of his body.

Someone that isn’t his husband says his name, and Duen’s eyes snap to the screen at the same time Bohn quickly hides his face in the crook of his neck with a strangled gasp. “I’ll be good,” he pleads quickly. “I’ll be- _ah_ \- good.”

Duen unmutes the mic against his better, logical judgement, free hand tangling in Bohn’s hair over the back of his head to keep him there, biting the inside of his lip as Bohn responds by swiveling his hips in the way he knows always makes his cock jump inside him. _Fuck_. "Sorry," Duen says, impressed with how steady he manages to keep his voice, all things considered. "Can you repeat the question? My connection is a bit bad today."

The doctor that had spoken waves a flippant hand in front of himself. "Happens to me all the time. I was just saying that it was good of Doctor Thara to take that emergency shift at the ER here a few weeks ago. Should I send him a fruit basket?"

Duen grimaces, ignoring Bohn’s definitely audible, slightly hitched snicker against his neck. "I'm sure P'Thara would love that." Bohn flutters around him a little, clearly getting _something_ out of the fact that Duen has to actually participate in this call. But Duen will legitimately furious if he comes while his cousin is the topic of conversation, and he digs his fingers warningly into Bohn’s ass at the thought. 

All it does is earn him an even louder, more obvious and poorly stifled whine. 

"Sorry! My cat-" Duen starts, panicking.

Bohn actually laughs, choking on it with a snort of, "I mean, I guess it's _technically_ puss-"

Duen slaps a hand over his mouth, the other firmly shoving him down so that he’s fully seated. It has the opposite effect of what he was going for, and he watches, simultaneously entranced and horrified as Bohn seizes up, quivering from head to toe and panting on a full-on moan against his palm as he comes. Out of the corners of his eyes, Duen can tell that at least one of his colleagues knows what just happened, a pair of eyes widening in the bottom right hand corner of the screen, and he bites his lip so hard it bleeds to keep from growling. 

"My cat," he says stiffly. "Is a _nuisance_. I'm really sorry." 

"My wife has four cats," the doctor on the top left sighs. "I keep telling her to get them spayed, but she doesn't. They yowl like that all the time."

Bohn is shaking with laughter again, and Duen makes another hasty apology before he mutes the mic once more, cheeks so hot he's sure his ears are pink. "You're a menace," he hisses. 

Bohn just purrs though, loose in his arms and warm all over, nuzzling at his shoulder and neck when Duen sighs and strokes a hand down his spine. "You love it."

He does. But he doesn't have to _admit it_.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere along the line Duen suspiciously asks if any of those potential chue lens are car names. Bohn denies it.
> 
> They were ALL car names.
> 
> *finger guns* comments appreciated as always!


	12. Only Two to Tango

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You have a lovely family," she coos as he reaches to box it, and Frong freezes. He follows the path of her eyes to where Thara is crouched in front of one of the cold storage displays, Del still clinging to his back and pointing at a large cut orchid. 
> 
> "Oh, uhm . . ." Does he tell her? Does it matter? It's unlikely he'll ever see this woman again, what does he care if she thinks Del is his and Thara’s kid? Except . . .
> 
> Something sharp and nauseating twists in Frong’s stomach, perfectly punctuated when Thara, apparently having heard the misplaced compliment, glances over his shoulder and shouts out an almost offhanded, "Thanks!" with one of his brightest grins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khon dii (คนดี) essentially means "my love" in Thai

"Doing okay, khon dii?" 

Frong blinks against the persistent fog of his heat, once, twice, breath staggering through him in a long and ragged inhale as he registers Thara’s broad hands framing his face, thumbs soothing over still wet tear tracks on his cheeks. He looks concerned, though Frong knows none of this is anywhere near new for either of them. Still, he shivers under the attention, the comfort of Thara’s weight pressing down on him the center of his focus for a heartbeat longer. The words stall in his throat though, hitch in his lungs, and the next time he takes a breath it's more of a whimper, truly upset, than any kind of reassurance. Oh. That's right, he’s peaked already, and this is the part where he gets caught in the panic of the downfall.

Thara makes a low, distressed noise of his own and nuzzles over Frong’s neck, the shell of his ear, brushing their cheeks together. "Khon dii," he murmurs. "It's alright, I promise. You’re alright."

And Frong knows that, of course he does, deep down. But emotions during heat are often too untethered for that to matter. Of course he's alright. _Of course_. There's a half dozen precautions already taken, the chance so small it's as close to zero as it can get. Fear, though, rises above that knowledge, claws at the spaces between his ribs until it tears another agonized sound from between his lips that Thara responds to with a second note of concern, a cautious trailing of his hands down Frong’s sides and back up. Frong winds his arms around his shoulders, buries his face in the curve of his neck, and struggles against the threat of hyperventilation. Everything's okay. It's fine. It's going to be _fine_.

And really, honestly, for the most part Frong loves his heats. They make him feel pampered, adored, Thara’s attention during their matched cycle so focused and caring that it always leaves him dizzy with gratification. The only downside is this, his own anxieties rearing their ugly head, reminding him that pleasure aside, his body was made for something he _viscerally_ does not want. 

There's a stack of pregnancy tests in their bathroom cabinet, boxes on top of boxes, and in two weeks Frong will rip through three or four of them before he’s satisfied, before he’s sure. He'll stare down at single pink lines, struck mute with terror that a second one could appear, counting down the minutes until the possibility fades. And then, at the end of it all, when he tosses them in the trash, filled with relief, he'll see Thara shrugging on his coat for a shift at his clinic where he specializes in _pediatrics_ , and wonder all over again if he's made a mistake. 

"I'm okay," he whispers once he's sure he has the voice to, and it still wavers at the edges. 

Thara beams down at him, a kiss left fondly on his cheek. "There you are, khon dii," he praises softly, so thick with affection that Frong chokes in the wake of it, still somehow startled after all this time. He’s purring, an unbroken thrum Frong can feel in every place they touch, a now long and love-worn tune that evens his own still unsteady breathing with every second it goes on. "You're alright," Thara repeats. "Everything is fine."

Not for the first time, Frong questions if that's really true. He lets himself believe it though, he always does. Surely, Thara would have left him ages ago if it wasn't. If he wanted something different, he would say so. They're good like that, they always have been. Where their friends tend to stumble over quiet misconceptions, they've been almost _too_ honest with each other since the start. 

If Thara wanted something Frong wasn't willing to give, they wouldn't still be together.

He's sure of that.

Mostly.

As always, Frongs seeks shelter in the warmth of his alpha's embrace, and pushes those doubts far, far into the back of his mind.

He's alright.

Everything is fine.

~~~***~~~

Bohn comes by the flower shop a lot these days, Frong notes. Not that he didn't used to visit occasionally, but there’s definitely a difference between stopping by to be a pest, and _lingering_. It's still only once, sometimes twice a week, but it's enough for Frong to notice. 

He walks the length of the displays slowly, Del on his hip, leaning in to let her touch every now and then when she reaches out with curious fingers. She's three this year, Frong's pretty sure, and unlike Bee who'd always had a propensity to grab, Del actually pats the flowers gently, so he lets her handsy tendencies slide. 

It's the second time Bohn has been here in the past five days, and the third time Frong has seen him that week, the other instance being their scheduled coffee date. Worry coils in his gut for awhile as he watches them make their way around the cluttered little space, but he pushes down against it. Eventually, Bohn will talk. He always does. And all Frong can do is wait until he's ready. 

Del has a couple of water-dyed daises in her hair when Bohn brings her to the counter, and she preens when Frong admires them aloud. Bohn tries to run his card for them, but Frong waves the offer away. "One or two daisies here and there isn't going to bankrupt me," he reminds, ignoring how Bohn rolls his eyes. "I married a doctor too, in case you forgot."

Right on cue, the bell above the door rings as Thara strides into the shop, a bag of takeout tucked under his arm. "Guests!" he exclaims when he spots Bohn and Del at the register. Bohn scoops his daughter up off the counter to set her down on her feet, and the takeout bag is swiftly handed over in exchange for the flying leap Del takes at her uncle. "What’s the special occasion?"

"It's flower day," Del says very seriously, and Frong casts Bohn a knowing side-eye he studiously does not meet. "Dad's visiting uncle Frong."

"Ooooohh," Thara says, equally serious. "We should let them talk, then. Why don't you help me make a bouquet your dad can take home to your phorh in the meantime." He lifts an eyebrow at them, nodding towards the door that leads towards the back room. 

It really doesn't work like that, Frong thinks wryly, not with Bohn, who'd frozen up the second he realized everyone in the room knew he'd been skulking around the shop with purpose. Frong runs a hand through his hair, casting his own gaze away for the small semblance of privacy it gives. "You don't have to," he whispers. 

Bohn swallows, the hand not holding the takeout bag clenching at his side. ". . . No. It's . . . We can talk. Come on."

The back room to F Flowers is even smaller than the storefront, a cramped little space stuffed with a single desk, a mini fridge, a personal-sized safe, and a microwave. There's a wobbly chair on the other side of the desk, one Frong’s been meaning to replace for over a year but has never found the time for, and Bohn sits in it as he deposits the takeout bag on the desk proper. Frong hesitantly perches on the corner of the wood, unwilling to go through with the formality of sitting behind it. "You don't have to," he reminds in the solace of the tiny space. 

Bohn shakes his head. "It's fine," he says. "I could put it off longer, but I should really ask sooner rather than later so I don't get my hopes up."

Frong grimaces, concern overtaking him again as the scent of Bohn’s unease permeates the air. He has no idea what's about to be asked of him, but something tells him he won't like it.

"In a year and a half . . . Could I start working mornings here?"

His heart climbs into his throat _immediately_. Bohn’s staring up at him with wide eyes, hands wringing in his lap, and Frong wonders, thick dismay in his chest, how he missed this. "Bohn . . ."

"Del starts school then," Bohn says quickly, as if Frong hasn't already done the math. "I just . . . I'd really like to have something to do when that happens," he continues. "It'll only be mornings, and you don't have to give me an answer right away, since it's over a year out yet. But I . . ." He falters, though over what Frong isn't sure. A confession that isn't for him, he suspects.

He doesn't even quite realize he’s moved to crouch in front of Bohn’s chair until he's taken the other man's hands in his. "You're sure?"

Bohn nods.

Frong squeezes his palms, forces a smile he knows doesn't reach his eyes. "If that's what you want, I can absolutely find space here for you. For as long as you'd like." 

It feels too much like a condolence, a consolation. What can his lonely little flower shop offer that Bohn doesn't already have? The answer comes to him in the same second he notices the relieved tears pricking at the corners of Bohn’s eyes.

Sound.

Frong loves a quiet household, empty halls and nights for two. But Bohn . . .

He wants to ask, but at the same time that he knows it's none of his business, Frong is also painfully struck by the whiplash of his own memory, the scent of blood and Bohn’s fear in his nose. Whatever decision was made was not made lightly, and if his role in it is merely to fill the future silence, he's happy to do so. "You're going to get really fed up with me as a boss," he teases, and Bohn’s breath hitches, half a laugh, and almost a sob.

"I'll be the worst employee."

Frong highly doubts that. Bohn was a good student in his day, and has always been diligent with his actual job, caring, kind, hard working in every way that mattered. He’s spoiled, but that's because he’s loved, and it's earned in everything else he does. Frong has no misgivings, only his own surety that Bohn will apply his all to whatever life throws at him, even if that now seems to be mornings spent arranging flowers. He gives his friend's hands another squeeze. "If I fire you, Duen will kill me, so you can be as terrible as you'd like."

That earns him a genuine laugh this time, and Bohn scrubs the heel of a hand over his eyes along the last notes of it. "Ah, probably not. Duen doesn't know I'm here, I wasn't gonna tell him unless I got the job."

"Well you did."

Bohn gives him an only _slightly_ sarcastic wai where he sits. "Then we'll talk about it. But if you change your mind, let me know."

"I won't," Frong promises. 

There's a knock at the door, any further probably unnecessary gestures of camaraderie forgotten as Thara sticks his head into the room with an apologetic smile. "Sorry," he says hastily, "you've got a customer."

Frong flicks Bohn’s head as he passes, an old and absentminded motion, and says, "Take a couple minutes, there's a bathroom behind that door in the corner. Wash your face."

"It was like six tears _max_ ," Bohn protests, but when Frong lifts an eyebrow he heads towards the door anyways. Frong joins Thara on the shop floor in the next second. He makes a grabby motion for Del, but Thara responds with an X formed by his fingers around the bouquet they're working on, and Del giggles from where she's hanging off his back. Rolling his eyes, Frong takes his place at the register where a stooped little old lady is waiting with one of his handmade flower crowns placed on the counter. 

"You have a lovely family," she coos as he reaches to box it, and Frong freezes. He follows the path of her eyes to where Thara is crouched in front of one of the cold storage displays, Del still clinging to his back and pointing at a large cut orchid. 

"Oh, uhm . . ." Does he tell her? Does it matter? It's unlikely he'll ever see this woman again, what does he care if she thinks Del is his and Thara’s kid? Except . . .

Something sharp and nauseating twists in Frong’s stomach, perfectly punctuated when Thara, apparently having heard the misplaced compliment, glances over his shoulder and shouts out an almost offhanded, "Thanks!" with one of his brightest grins.

Frong finishes boxing the flower crown up, admiring how little his hands shake. 

~~~***~~~

It takes exactly seven minutes and forty-two seconds for Thara to notice that dinner is a little quiet that night. And while it's not entirely silent, casual smalltalk made as Frong picks at his food, the conversation is stilted, cut short, and Frong winces when he hears Thara set his glass down a bit too hard.

"Khon dii . . ."

Frong very studiously does not look at him.

"Did Bohn say something that upset you?"

Oh yeah. That happened too. Frong almost forgot, what with the way his stomach has been in knots for every god damn second since. "No," he says stiffly, "he just wanted to know if I'd be willing to hire him once Del starts school, and I am, so it's fine."

He chances a glance Thara’s way, a quick flicker of his eyes, only for their gazes to meet, and he stares resolutely at the surface of the table again as soon as it happens. "Was it something I said?" Thara tries, and sometimes Frong really _hates_ how patient he is with him.

How should he answer that, anyways? Oh, yeah, this afternoon you made a super weird implication that forced me to question our entire relationship for the hundredth time, but no big deal! Not. Frong digs his teeth into his bottom lip, sucking in a long breath through his nose. "I'm thirty-eight, you know," he whispers.

"Uh," Thara intones, clearly befuddled, "yes? You are?"

Frong swallows, "If you've . . . If you've changed your mind, and you . . . And you want kids, you should probably start looking for someone a bit younger, and-"

" _Frong_ -"

"Cause I still don't- I don't want that. The thought of something like that _inside me_ scares the shit out of me. But I want you to be happy, so-" His voice breaks, and he shakes his head to try and dislodge the lump of anguish that's formed in his throat. "You're in _pediatrics_ , Thara. It's not like you don't like kids, and you love your cousin's children, and I really hate to think the only reason you don't have any of your own is because of me, and-"

The clatter of Thara’s chair scooting back, and then wobbling to fall over on the hardwood of their kitchen is _loud_. It jolts Frong out of his rambling, and he blinks back a blur of tears to see that Thara has rounded the table, is reaching out for him, and Frong doesn't have the self control to hesitate. He surges up into the already open arms without a moment of forethought, burying his face in the crook of Thara’s neck as soon as they close around him. "Khon dii," Thara whispers, "what did I say to make you think that?"

It's stupid, Frong knows, it's _so stupid_. But doubt is a horrible virus, and it claws at his heart, his lungs, even as he speaks his own folly into the air. "The woman at the shop, she thought Del was . . . And you . . ."

Thara is quiet for a heartbeat, though the way he dips his head to nose along the shell of Frong’s ear is just as comforting as any verbal reply. "She said we were a lovely family," Thara recalls softly. "And I thanked her, because Del _is_ my family."

"I don't want kids," Frong whispers. He’s said it before, he'll say it a million times over, even when he's terrified it will eventually tear Thara away from him.

"Hmm. I would hope so," Thara murmurs, the slightest thrum of amusement in his chest. "Since I don't want any either."

Frong frowns. It's not the first time Thara has said it, but that was before they started regularly babysitting Bohn and Duen’s children, while he was still doing rotational shifts at the hospital, not yet settled into pediatrics. "But-"

"I do like kids," Thara says, leaving no room for Frong to start freaking out when he quickly follows it with, "but not _in_ **_my_ ** _house_. I like helping kids feel better when they're sick, and I love my nieces and nephews to death. At the end of the day though I get to leave work, or send them home, and have a nice, _quiet_ dinner with you." He pauses. "Also we have four snakes, five lizards, and two frogs. So . . ."

"If you refer to your reptile hoard as our children I will bite you," Frong warns, only half kidding. 

Thara chuckles, "Frogs are amphibians."

"Thara."

His arms tighten around him, and Frong slumps instinctively further into the embrace. "I love you," Thara murmurs. "I love our life as it is, and I wouldn't change it for anything. Also," Frong can hear the distaste in his words, "kids like to squeeze small animals. They don't mean to, but they do. I can't do that to Cupcake II."

"Good to know you're putting the needs of the lizards before your husband," Frong deadpans, earning a huff and a purposefully wet smooch to his cheek that he quickly rubs off. 

"You think I'm adorable."

"I don't."

"You think I'm cute."

"I think you're _bizarre_ ," Frong corrects, leaning back to cup Thara’s face between his hands. He kisses him soundly, just for the sake of it, the breath he steals between them when he pulls back settling with satisfaction deep in his soul. "But it's a cute sort of bizarre, so I guess you're kind of right."

Thara beams at him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'd been wanting to do a FrongThara one for awhile, but like MekBoss they're a pretty calm duo so while I had their whole dynamic and way they functioned within the a/b/o set in stone from the start, there just never seemed like a good place to make it into something with conflict or plot because I get the feeling that these two, once they get their shit together in canon, are the sort to only argue over really dumb, super inconsequential stuff, and mostly lead fairly quiet, domestic, reptile filled lives. 
> 
> Anywho, this one marks the break point for the shorts because I've set up all the bases for the FOURTH large BohnDuen of this fucking series (edit: it's called If Given The Chance and has now been posted!). There will be more shorts, but only after that fic is out and complete. In the meantime, I'm totally open to taking suggestions for other scenes in this verse you'd like to see for future short stories! Definitely comment if you have any and I'll consider them!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
